Planet Stories v05n10 (1953 01)

STRANGE ADVENTURES ON OTHER WORLDS

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VOL. 5, No. 10 • A FICTION HOUSE MAGAZINE • JANUARY, 1953

Novel of Distant Worlds

DESIGN FOR GREAT-DAY Erie Frank Russell 4

All hail Lawson of the strange Solarian Combine. Lawson of the Cosmos-wide
supermind; Lawson the supreme egotist. Lawson who was man plus men plus
other creatures . . . who believed . . . who knew, that wits top warheads;
that tactics surpass instruments; that a super-glib tongue rules the Galaxies.

^ Three Star-flung Novelets

WAR DRUMS OF MERCURY LOST John W. Jakes 62

From the mouth of an ancient crone came the weird Mercurian curse: "We
can make even the dead walk against you.”

THE SUN-DEATH Stanley Whiteside 75

In the soaring Vulcan, that ark of abominations, the repentant Captain
would sing his swan song to space.

OH MESMERIST FROM MIMAS! Roger Dee 94

Joey, the smiley, was gloriously gay, asfoundingly peace-pervading. When
he struck Mars it was madness . . . gargantuan madness.

► Short Stories by a New Author

THE IMAGINATIVE MAN ........... Bryan Berry 44

Of the two survivors who crash-landed on Venus, only Clarke, the keenly
sensitive-minded one, could see those miraculous inhabitants, those myth-
ological weirdies. Science-minded Bainbridge, the fool, was acting like a
full-fledged, normal homo.

THE FINAL VENUSIAN . Bryan Berry 51

That evening. That strange, fateful evening, robot John sat by the fire as
he had for one thousand, four hundred and twenty-eight years, four months
and three days . . . but waiting now for nothing in the whole world. Nothing
at all.

GROUNDLING Bryan Berry 57

Hen-pecked and grounded, that was Larry Miller. But he was nurturing a
daring plan to rid himself of both these roadblocks to glorious space.

^ Planet's Star Feature

THE VIZIGRAPH 2 & 110

Heedeth the words of man, woman and robot.

T. T. SCOTT, President JACK O'SULUVAN, Editor MALCOLM REISS, Mgr. editor

PLANET STORIES • Published bi-monthly by Love Romances Publishing Co., Inc., 1658 Summer St., Stamford, Conn.
The entire contents of this magazine are copyrighted, 1952, by Love Romances Publishing Co., Inc. Reentered as second-
class matter August 15, 1950, at the Post Office at New York. N. Y., under the Act of March 3, 1879. All rights reserved.
Price 25^ per copy. One-year subscription: $1.60 ; additional postage for Canada, 15^; foreign countries, SOtf. For adveas
tisingjrates address: Advertising Director, Fiction House, Inc,, 1658 Summer Street, Stamford, Conn.

* 173 PRINTED IK U. S. A* *

To straighten out those readers who have been inquiring about
PLANET’S subscriptions; Yes, we do take subscriptions. Price,
$1.50 per year; additional postage for Canada, fifteen cents; for
other foreign countries, thirty cents. Address, 1658 Summer
Street, Stamford, Conn.

The London office of the International Fantasy Award Committee
has made known its selections for 1952. The award of the fiction tro-
phy goes to John Collier for his volume of short stories titled
FANCIES AND GOODNIGHTS; the non-fiction trophy has been
bestowed on Arthur C. Clarke for his fine work on interplanetary
travel, THE EXPLORATION OF SPACE.

FANCIES AND GOODNIGHTS also won an "Edgar" from
the Mystery Writers of America for outstanding contribution to the
mystery short story, but it is, of course, the new fantasy content
of this excellent book which gained it the choice of the I. F. A.
judges.

Runner-up in the fiction field was John Wyndham’s THE DAY
OF THE TRIFFIDS, while third place went to Ray Bradbury for his
work, THE ILLUSTRATED MAN.

Willy Ley's DRAGONS IN AMBER copped second spot in the
non-fiction field, followed by Fletcher Pratt’s ROCKETS, JETS,
GUIDED MISSILES & SPACE SHIPS.

November ish pic winners are: (1) Radell Nelson; (2) Edwin
Sigler; (3) Claude Hall.

SATURN’S PLUM

Ramapo
New Jersey

Dear Editor:

Since last Summer— your July issue, to be exact — I have been
diligently scanning the columns of your VIZIGRAPH to learn if
there was one other person among your notable writers who man-
aged to get as glorious a thrill as I did from reading Charles Dye’s
wonderful novel, THE MAN WHO STAKED THE STARS. Alas,
I found but two — Claude Hall and R. Nelson, both of whom made
mention in the Sept, ish columns.

Mr. Nelson somewhat begrudgingly summed up his remarks in
three lines: "THE MAN WHO STAKED THE STARS was well
above average, too. A sound STF idea in the background, and still
it moves.”

Mr. Hall, on the other hand, seems to have been clearly trans-
posed from this world to the glories of salubrious outer space (just
as I was) in making his report: ”1 believe that once in every man’*
lifetime he finds his goal, that object for which he aims all his life.
It has always been a subconscious urge of mine to find a story worth
writing about to the editor. Mr. Sullivan with the O in front, I've
found that story. Charles Dye wrote one of the best stories I’ve ever
read. His lead novel, THE MAN WHO STAKED THE STARS,
surprised me near out of my hide. I never expected to see a story

THE VIZIGRAPH

with this theme, a real honest to goodness classic,
in PLANET. The novels and stories you’ve been
printing were all good, up to a certain extent, but
nothing like this thriller. ... I have a feeling that
this story will go down in STF history as a story
equal to anything ever published.”

Well, Texans are prone to exaggerate but I cannot
feel that way about this Lone Star stater. Charley hit
the nail right on the head as far as I'm concerned.
May I take this chance to tell PLANET readers to go
dig out their issues and take a closer gander at the
lead novel. I admit it is a bit confusing at the begin-
ning . . . but, Oh, so very worth while after you are
once into the meat of the plot. Dye’s characters are
outstanding; the setting most futuristic, and the plot
stimulating.

A garland of Saturn’s rings for the admirable Mr,
Dye, please.

Sincerely,

Jerry Taylor

NOT IN ANGER

.103 Ridge Dr.,

Toronto, Ont,

Canada

Dear Editor,

This is my first letter to PLANET since you be-
came the guiding hand of the ole editor-eater . . .
and I’m afraid you won’t be glad to see it. I saw the
first issue of your mag appear on tire stands in 1939
and since then I have never willingly missed an issue.
Now, I’ve never been one of those who scoffed at
PLANET STORIES as tripe. I’ve always felt that the
mag had a personality all its own and that the few
gems it published more than made up for its obvious
faults. The mag has had a couple of ups and downs
since inception and it’s because I’m afraid it is going
into another recession that I’m writing you now. To
show what I mean, let’s compare the Sept. ’32, ish
with its 1951 counterpart.

In the Sept. ’51, ish PLANET was being heralded
as the only STF magazine edited by a robot. But this
robot must have been a nifty positronic job because
he corraled Theodore Sturgeon, one of the top quality
names in STF, to do the novel. Furthermore, there
were ten stories as compared to 7 now and, since
quality is more important than quantity, at least five
of them were the equal of the current issue’s top
yarn. Now this odious comparison is made not out of
malice, but because it illustrates a trend we fans do
not like, a trend back to the mid-forties when only
the first two or three yarns in PLANET could be
depended on for quality. In ”51 it looked as if
PLANET was going to take its place among the STF
renaissance in other mags. Now, I can see the mag
slipping back to its older, lower standards.

So much for the destructive criticism, now for the
suggestions as to how to alleviate this horrendous
condition. Ole Doc Anger’s remedy is very simple.
It comes variously labeled, but under whatever name
there’s nothing like a large dose of Henry Kuttner
to pep up an ailing STF mag. For my two bits he is
by far the best STF author of all time and no one
else has even approached his record for quantity and
quality. And that includes such idols as Merritt, Brad-
bury, Lovecraft, Wells or Verne, too. He has more
sheer writing skill than anyone has a right to and he
can write in the colorful, human-interest vein
favored by your mag. Kuttner has never done his
best work for PLANET, but a new editor like your-
self should be able to offer him an attractive deal to
do some novels and shorts. He is published seldom
these days, for a professional, and a Kuttner-
PLANET alliance could be good for both of yuz.

s

Now, wiping my bloody kukri on tire prostrate
editor’s suit, I’ll turn to the stories in tire current ish.
(Was that Raymond Z. Gallun who screamed or Just
Thompson’s Cat howling?)

1. THE STAR PLUNDERER by Poul Anderson:—
I like these historical-transference stories and so does
ye ed I guess, since there are 4 of ’em in this ish. By
historical-transference I mean a story in which an
author takes a historical incident from the present or
past of Earth and transfers it in time to a future
environment. I think this is a legitimate method of
yarn-spinning since history does repeat itself with
astonishing similarity. This story of an empire in the
making parallels the rise of Mohammed in Arabia or
Harumhab in Egypt, both of whom came out of the
common rank to take over tottering empires and
expand them. Poul Anderson’s characterization of
Manuel Argos and his imaginary society of the
Gorzuni got this one first place, but it nor any other
story in this ish did not give me a thrill like, say, Lee
Gregor’s LAST NIGHT OUT in the Sept. ’51 ish.

2. EVIL OUT OF ONZAR by Mark Ganes:—
This time it is the present historical crisis which is
transferred to the future. Well done. Incidentally, it
is a disheartening thought that there is no Onzar in
the present power balance.

3. THE SLAVES OF VENUS by Edwin James:—
It’s a far cry from the old days to have the three long
stories roll in 1, 2, 3 like this but this third historical
yarn is a fine adaptation of conditions in Africa dur-
ing the 19th Cent, empire-building. Too bad there
wasn’t a Freedom, Inc., then to give men like Leopold
of Belgium or Cecil Rhodes what for. This could be
the beginning of a series, but I hope not because
Edwin James can write good philosophical sTf and
shouldn’t be limited to this.

4. THE GUN by Philip K. Dick:— If this is a new
author, he’ll be a comer. The idea is taken from
Alfred Coppel’s Welcome, but the fairy tale simile
is a good one here.

5. THOMPSON’S CAT by Robert Moore Wil-
liams: — A good story from an author who is usually
more than good.

6. ZERO DATA by Charles Saphro: — If this is a
new author let this be his last as well as first appear-
ance.

7. BIG PILL by Raymond Z. Gallun: — In my
uninformed opinion, Gallun’s nuclear physics is way
off. I just don’t think things would happen the way
he says they would. There is a tendency for some
authors to think of atoms as synonymous with
"magic” and I think the reliable Mr. Gallun has
fallen into this trap.

Ron Anger

Ed’s note: Nice to see that the tail-end of your
critique contradicts the nose-end.

STRAIGHTENING EVERYBODY OUT

Box 666

Camrose, Alberta

Dear Fen: (And the Editor, too)

If a Northern neighbor may be allowed to join in
this squabble among you Yankees —

1. I like Ray Bradbury and all of his stories.

2. I don’t give a hoot whether the edges of
PLANET are trimmed or not.

3. I like practically every cover, no matter how
fantastic they are.

4. PLANET’S current artists and authors can stay
on the payroll as long as they want.

5. I agree with Gregg Calkins- — most STF zincs

( Continued on page 110)

A sample of unfamiliar life emerged onto the platform . . . proud
. . . disdainful , . . magnificently indifferent to all around him.

DE$!GN FOR GREAT-DAY

By ERIC FRANK RUSSELL

All hail Lawson of the Solarian Combine. Lawson the
impudent peacemaker. Lawson the mighty-minded
egotist. Lawson who was man plus men plus other
creatures . . . who believed . . . who knew . . . that wits
top warheads; that tactics surpass instruments; that a
super-glib tongue rules the Galaxies.

T HE little ship, scarred and battered,
sat on the plain and cooled its tubes
and ignored the armed guard that had
surrounded it at a safe distance. A large,
bluish sun burned overhead, lit the edges of
flat, waferlike clouds in brilliant purple.
There were two tiny moons shining like
pale specters low in tire east, and a third
was diving into the westward horizon.

To the north lay the great walled city
whence the guard had erupted in irate haste.
It was a squat, stark conglomeration of
buildings in gray granite, devoid of tall
towers, sitting four-square to the earth. An
unbeautiful, strictly utilitarian place suitable
for masses of the humble living in subservi-
ence to the harsh.

At considerable altitude above tire granite
mass roamed its aerial patrol, a number of
tiny, almost invisible dots weaving a tangle

of vapor-trails. The dots displayed the irri-
tated restlessness of a swarm of disturbed
gnats, for their pilots were uncomfortably
aware of the strange invader now sitting
on the plain. Indeed, they would have
intercepted it had that been possible, which
it wasn’t. How can one block the path of
an unexpected object moving with such
stupendous rapidity that its trace registers
as a mere flick on a screen some seconds
after the source has passed?

Upon the ground the troops kept careful
watch and awaited the arrival of someone
permitted the initiative that they were
denied. All of them had either four legs
and two arms or four arms and two legs,
according to the need of the moment. That
is to say: the front pair of underbody limbs
could be employed as feet or hands, like
those of a baboon. Superior life does not

I

6 PLANET STORIES

establish itself by benefit of brains alone;
manual dexterity is equally essential. The
quasi-quadrupeds of this world had a barely
adequate supply of the former compensated
by more than enough of the latter.

Thus the watchers could and did simul-
taneously stare through binoculars, scratch
themselves, pick their teeth and hold on to
their guns. The scratching was necessary
because their harness was strapped over
horselike hide in lieu of clothes, and beneath
tlie harness were the lurking places of
things too small to know or care about the
bigness of the big.

Although it was not for them to decide
what action to take against this sorry look-
ing object from the unknown, they had
plenty of curiosity concerning it, and no
little apprehension. Much of their noseyness
was stimulated by the fact that the vessel
was of no identifiable type despite that they
could recognize all the seventy patterns
common to the entire galaxy. The appre-
hension was created by the sheer noncha-
lance of the visitor’s arrival. It had burst
like a superswift bullet through the detector-
screen that enveloped the entire planet,
treated the sub-stratosphere patrols with
disdain and sat itself down in clear view of
the city.

Such a performance is disconcerting,
especially in time of war. It brings with it
the irresistible suggestion that what one can
do, others can likewise achieve. It encour-
ages morbid doubts about the real efficiency
of one’s own defenses. Nothing is more
inviting to painful self-examination than
the sudden realization that the other party
can hit back. That scored and dented article
on the plain was mute witness to a grim
possibility and nobody derived pleasure
from the thought.

Something drastic would have to be done
about it, on that point one and all were
agreed. But die correct tactics would be
defined by authority, not by underlings. To
make up his own mind one way or the
other was a presumptuous task not one of
them dared undertake. So they hung around
in dips and behind rocks, and scratched and
held their guns and hankered for high brass
in the city to wake up and come running.

In much the same way that planetary
'defenses had been brought to nought by

bland presentation of an accomplished fact,
so were the guards now disturbed by being
confronted with an event when none were
present who were qualified to cope. Giving
distant sluggards no time to make up their
minds and spring into action, the ship’s
-lock opened and a thing came out.

A S A SAMPLE of unfamiliar life he was
neither.big nor fearsome. A biped with
two arms, a pinkish face and close-fitting
clothes, he was no taller than any of the
onlookers and not more than one-third the
weight. A peculiar creature in no way re-
doubtable. In fact he looked soft. One could
jump on him with all four feet and squash
him.

Nevertheless one could not hold him
entirely in contempt. There were aspects
that gave one to pause and think. In the first
place, he was carrying no visible weapons
and, moreover, doing it with the subtle as-
surance of one who has reason to view guns
as so much useless lumber. In the second
place, he was mooching airily around the
ship, hands in pockets, inspecting the
scarred shell for all the world as if this
landing marked a boring call on tiresome
relatives. Most of the time he had his back
to die ring of troops, magnificendy indiffer-
ent to whether or not anyone chose to blow
him apart.

Apparendy satisfied with his survey of
the vessel, he suddenly turned and walked
straight toward the hidden watchers. The
ship’s lock remained wide open in a manner
suggesting either criminal carelessness or
supreme confidence, more probably the
latter. Completely at peace with a world in
the midst of war, he ambled direcdy toward
a section of guards, bringing die need for
initiative nearer and nearer, making them
sweat with anxiety and creating such a panic
that they forgot to itch.

Rounding a rock, he came face to face
with Yadiz, a common trooper momentarily
paralyzed by sheer lack of an order to go
forward, go backward, shoot the alien, shoot
himself, or do something. He looked casual-
ly at Yadiz as if different life-forms in
radically different shapes were more com-
mon than pebbles. Yadiz became so embar-
rassed by his own futility that he swapped
his gun from hand to hand and back again.

DESIGN FOR GREAT -DAY

"Surely it’s not that heavy,” remarked
the alien with complete and surprising
fluency. He eyed the gun and sniffed.

Yadiz, of course, dropped it. The feat is
far from easy when one has four normally
agile hands. It requires the cooperation of
a mind quick to swirl into hopeless confu-
sion. But Yadiz had a brain not to be
daunted by the difficulty of the task. It
muddled itself most successfully and turned
all his fingers into thumbs and temporarily
abolished his coordination.

He dropped the gun which promptly
went off with an ear-splitting crash and a
piece of rock flew into shards and something
whined shrilly into the sky. The alien turned
and followed the whine with his eyes until
finally it died out.

Then he said to Yadiz, "Wasn’t that
rather silly?”

There was no need to answer. It was a
conclusion Yadiz already had reached about
one second before the bang. He picked up
the gun with a foot-hand, transferred it to
a real hand, found it upside-down, turned
it right way up, got the strap tangled around
his fist, had to reverse it to get the limb
free, turned it right way up again.

The other studied this complicated per-
formance with such intense interest that
Yadiz, completely unnerved, decided to
shoulder it in the approved on-guard posi-
tion. Whereupon a harness buckle obliging-
ly caught the firing-stud and the thing went
off again. Once more the alien observed the
missile’s screaming flight.

Returning his attention, he inquired
with pleased anticipation, "How many more
tricks can you do with that?”

Some sort of answer seemed to be neces-
sary but for the life of him Yadiz could not
conceive one that was wholly satisfactory.
Struck dumb, he posed there holding his
weapon by the muzzle and at arm’s length,
like one who has recklessly grabbed a
mamba and dare not let go. In all his years
as a trooper, of which there were more than
several, he couldn’t recall a time when
possession of a firearm had proved such a
handicap. He was still searching in vain
for a verbal means of salvaging his self-
respect when another trooper arrived to
break the spell.

A little breathless wkh haste, the new-

f

comer looked askance at the biped, said to
Yadiz, "Who gave you orders to shoot?”

"What business is it of yours?” asked the
biped, coldly disapproving. "It’s his own
gun, isn’t it?”

This interjection took the arrival aback.
He had not expected another life-form to
speak with the fluency of a native, much
less treat this matter of wasting ammunition
from the angle of personal ownership. The
thought that a trooper might have proprie-
tary rights in his weapon had never occurred
to him. And now that he had captured the
thought he did not know what to do with it
He stared at his own gun as if it had just
miraculously appeared in his hand, changed
it to another hand by way of ensuring its
realness and solidity.

"Be careful,” advised the biped. He
nodded toward Yadiz. "That’s the way h*
started.”

Yadiz felt he ought to resent that remark
for some reason or other, especially since
the other trooper immediately took a firmer
hold on his gun in open willingness to treat
the warning seriously. It suggested that the
trooper and the biped had found sweet
accord in their mutual belief that anything
begun by Yadiz was bound to have a com-
pletely unpredictable ending. It is not pleas-
ant to have one’s condition publicly rec-
ognized and be condemned before the
event.

So he scowled at his fellow trooper and
demanded, “Who ordered you to leave
your post, Boonsnucker?”

That last word was truly the master-
touch. Boonsnucker had been tormented by
the horrid name since birth. It was an un-
wanted burden placed upon him by malig-
nant parents. Yadiz picked it up and
bounced it on his cranium. The unfortunate
Boonsnucker wilted visibly and the alien
chose that moment to chip in with another
confusing comment.

"It’s his own post, isn’t it? He doesn't
have to drag it with him wherever he goes.”

Since the post in question had been
represented by a small hollow in the ground,
Yadiz had a tough time trying to decide
whether or not it could be legitimately
dragged. Is a trooper freely permitted to do
that which is impossible?

He became a little cross-eyed in kb

8 PLANET

strenuous efforts to settle the issue. So far
as he could make out the correct answer
oscillated somewhere between that which
is allowed and that which is feasible. It was
remotely possible that Boonsnucker could
exercise the privilege of either toting a hole
around or leaving it where it was, provided
that he had a choice about the matter.
Alternatively, he might be strictly forbidden
to move it from its proper place even though
unable to do so. It was all very confusing
and he could not understand why it was as
clear as daylight to the alien.

Much encouraged by the mind-racked
silence of Yadiz, plus the support offered
from an unexpected quarter, Boonsnucker
recovered sufficiently to explain, "I thought
he might have received the order to shoot.”

"Indeed?” said the biped in kindly tones.

"Yes, and I should have had the same
order.”

“To do what?” inquired the biped.

"To shoot,” explained Boonsnucker
again.

"Whom?” asked the biped, looking him
straight in the eye.

Boonsnucker opened his mouth, shut it,
opened it, gaped at the sky, examined his
finger-nails, ate half of one of them, remem-
bered an itch and pursued it along his
harness.

"Don’t you know?” the biped persisted.

"I’d better stay at my post,” said Boon-
snucker, backing away at a hurried shuffle.
He returned to his hole, squatted within it,
kept careful watch on the strange space-
vessel, held himself in readiness to deal
with whatever might emerge therefrom, all
in accordance with instructions, so far as
they went.

Turning to Yadiz, the alien said in calm,
matter-of-fact tones, "Take me to Markham-
wit.”

Yadiz couldn’t be sure whether he actual-
ly dropped the gun again or whether it
leaped clean out of his hands. Anyway, it
did not go off.

II

T HEY met the high brass one third of
the way to the city. There was an
assorted truckload ranging from two to
five-comet rank. Bowling along the road on

STORIES

flexible tracks, the vehicle stopped almost
level with them and two dozen faces peered
at the alien. A paunchy individual straggled
out from his seat beside the driver and con-
fronted the ill-assorted pair. He had a red
metal sun and four silver comets shining
on his harness.

To Yadiz he snapped, "Who told you to
desert the guard-ring and come this way?”

"Me,” informed the alien, airily.

The officer jerked as if stuck with a pin,
shrewdly eyed him up and down and said,
"I did not expect that you could speak our
language.”

"I’m fully capable of speech,” assured
the biped. “I can read, too. In fact, without
wishing to appear boastful, I’d like to
mention that I can also write.”

"That may be,” agreed the officer, willing
to concede a couple of petty aptitudes to
the manifestly outlandish. He had another
careful look. "Can’t say that I’m familiar
with your kind of life.”

"Which doesn’t surprise me,” said the
alien. "Tots of folk never get the chance to
become familiar with us.”

The other’s color heightened. With a
show of annoyance, he informed, "I don’t
know who you are or what you are, but
you’re under arrest.”

"Sire,” put in the aghast Yadiz, “he
wishes to — ”

“Did anyone tell you to speak?” de-
manded the officer, burning him down with
his eyes.

"No, sire. It was just that — ”

"Shut up!”

Yadiz swallowed hard, took on the ap-
prehensive expression of one unreasonably
denied the right to point out that the barrel
is full of powder and someone has lit the
fuse.

"Why am I under arrest?” inquired the
alien, not in the least disturbed.

"Because I say so,” the officer retorted.

"Really? Do you treat all arrivals that

? rr

"At present, yes. You may know it or you
may not, but right now this system is at
war with the system of Nilea. We’re taking
no chances.”

"Neither are we,” remarked the biped,
enigmatically.

"What do you mean by that?”

DESIGN FOR GREAT -DAT

"The same as you meant. We’re playing
safe.”

"Ah!” The other licked satisfied lips. "So
you are what I suspected from the first,
namely, an ally the Nileans have dug up
from some very minor system that we’ve
overlooked.”

"Your suspicions are ill-founded,” the
alien told him. "However, I would rather
explain myself higher up.”

"You will do just that,” promised the
officer. "And the explanation had better be
satisfactory.”

"Or else?”

"We’ve a short and effective way of dis-
posing of doubtful matters. We don’t worry
our heads about them.” He made a sweep-
ing motion with an arm, giving the gesture
a touch of contemptuous finality. "We
brush them aside for keeps.”

"Well,” said tire alien, meditatively, "it
has the merit of being a successful method
— temporarily.”

"It’s good enough for all time,” corrected
the officer, becoming irritated again.

He did not care for the slow smile he
got in reply. It irresistibly suggested that
someone was being dogmatic and someone
else knew better. Neither had he any diffi-
culty in identifying the respective someones.
The alien’s apparently baseless show of
quiet confidence unsettled him far more
than he cared to reveal, especially with a
dopey guard standing nearby and a truck-
load of brass looking on.

It would have been nice to attribute the
two-legger’s sangfroid to the usual imbecil-
ity of another life-form too dim-witted to
know when its scalp was in danger. There
were plenty of creatures like that: seeming-
ly brave because unable to realize a predica-
ment even when they were in it up to the
neck. Many of the lower ranks of his own
forces had that kind of guts. Nevertheless
he could not shake off the uneasy feeling
that this case was different. The alien
looked too alert, too sharp-eyed to make
like a cow.

Another and smaller truck came along
the road. Waving it to a stop, he picked
four two-comet officers to act as escort,
shooed them into the new vehicle along
with the biped who entered without com-
ment or protest.

Through the side window he said to the
officers, "I hold you personally responsible
for his safe arrival at the interrogation
center. Tell them I’ve gone on to the ship
to see whether there’s any more where he
came from.”

He stood watching on the- verge while
the truck reversed its direction, saw it roll
rapidly toward the city. Then he clambered
into his own vehicle which at once departed
for the source of all the trouble.

Devoid of instructions to proceed toward
town, return to the ship, stand on his head
or do anything else, Yadiz leaned on his
gun and patiently awaited the passing of
somebody qualified to tell him.

T HE interrogation center viewed the
alien’s advent as less sensational than the
arrival of a Joppelan five-eared munkster
at the zoo. Data drawn from a galaxy was
at the disposal of its large staff and the
said information included descriptions of
four hundred separate and distinct life-
forms, a few of them so fantastic that the
cogent material was more deductive than
demonstrative. So far as they were concerned
this sample brought die record up to four
hundred and one. In another century’s time
it might be four hundred twenty-one or
fifty-one. Listing the lesser lifes was so
much routine.

Interviews were equally a matter of
established rigmarole. They had created a
standard technique involving questions to
be answered, forms to be filled, conclusions
to be drawn. Their ways of dealing with
recalcitrants were, however, a good deal
more flexible, demanding various alterna-
tive methods and a modicum of imagina-
tion. Some life-forms responded with pleas-
ing alacrity to means of persuasion that
other life-forms could not so much as sense.
The only difficulty they could have with
this specimen was that of thinking up an
entirely new way of making him see reason.

So they directed him to a desk, giving
him a chair with four arm-rests and six
inches too high, and a bored official took
his place opposite. The latter accepted in
advance that the subject could already speak
the local tongue or communicate in some
other understandable manner. Nobody was
sent to this place until educated sufficiently

PLANET STORIES

10

to give the required responses.

Switching his tiny desk-recorder, the
Interviewer started with, "What is your
number, name, code, cipher or other verbal
identification?”

"James Lawson.”

"Sex, if any?”

"Male.”

"Age?”

"None.”

"There now,” said the interviewer, scent-
ing coming awkwardness. "You must have
an age.”

"Must I?”

"Everyone has an age.”

“Have they?”

"Look,” insisted the interviewer, very pa-
tient, "nobody can be ageless.”

"Can’t they?”

He gave it up, murmuring, "It’s unim-
portant anyway. His time-units are meaning-
less until we get his planetary data.” Glanc-
ing down at his question sheet, he carried
©n, "Purpose of visit?” His eyes came up
as he waited for the usual boring response
such as, "Norma! exploration. ”He repeated,
"Purpose of visit?”

"To see Markhamwit,” responded James
Lawson.

The interviewer yelped, "What?”, cut off
the recorder and breathed heavily for a
while. When he found voice again it was
to ask, "You really mean you’ve come
specially to see the Great Lord Markham-
wit?”

"Yes.”.

He asked uncertainly, "By appointment?”
"No.”

That did it. Recovering with great swift-
ness, the interviewer became aggressively
officious and growled, "The Great Lord
Markhamwit sees nobody wdthout an ap-
pointment.”

“Then kindly make one for me.”

"I’ll find out what can be done,” prom-
ised the other, having no intention of
doing anything whatsoever. Turning tire
recorder on again, he resumed with the next
question.

"Rank?”

"None.”

"Now look here — ”

"I said none!” repeated Lawson.

“I heard you. We’ll let it pass. It’s a

minor poim that can be brought out later.”
With that slightly sinister comment he tried
the next question. "Location of origin?”
"The Solarian Combine.”

Flip went the switch as the unlucky desk
instrument again got put out of action.
Leaning backward, the interviewer rubbed
his forehead. A passing official glanced at
him, stopped.

"Having trouble, Dilmur?”

"Trouble?” he echoed bitterly. He
mooned at his question sheet. "What a day!
One thing after another! Now this!”
"What’s the matter?”

He pointed an accusative finger at Law-
son. "First he pretends to be ageless. Then
he gives the motive behind his arrival as
that of seeing the Great Lord without prior
arrangement.” His sigh was deep and heart-
felt. "Finally, to top it all, he claims that
he comes from the Solarian Combine.”
"H’m! Another theological nut,” diag-
nosed the passerby. "Don’t waste your time
on him. Pass him along to the mental
therapists.” Giving the subject of the con-
versation a cold look of reproof he con-
tinued on his way.

"You heard that?” The interviewer felt
for the recorder-switch in readiness to re-
sume operation. "Now do we get on with
this job in a reasonable and sensible manner
or must we resort to other, less pleasant
methods of discovering the truth?”

"The way you put it implies that I am
a liar,” said Lawson, displaying no resent-
ment.

"Not exactly. Perhaps you are a deliberate
but rather stupid liar whose prevarications
will gain him nothing. Perhaps you may
have no more than a distorted sense of
humor. Or you may be completely sincere
because completely deluded. We have had
visionaries here before. It takes all sorts to
make a universe.”

"Including Solarians,” Lawson remarked.
"The Solarians are a myth,” declared the
interviewer with all the positiveness of one
stating a long-established fact.

"There are no myths. There are only gross
distortions of half -remembered truths.

"So you still insist that you are a Solar-
lan?

"Certainly.”

The other shoved the recorder aside, got

li

DESIGN FOR GREAT -DAT

up from his seat. "Then I can go no further
with you.” He summoned several attendants,
pointed to the victim. "Take him to Kasine.”

Ill

T HE individual named Kasine suffered
glandular maladjustment that made him
grossly obese. He was just one great big bag
of fat relieved only by a pair of deep-sunk
but brilliantly glittering eyes.

Those optics looked at Lawson in much
the same way that a cat stares at a cornered
mouse. Completing the inspection, he
operated his recorder, listened to a play-back
of what had taken place during the previous
interview.

Then a low, reverberating chuckle
sounded in his huge belly and he com-
mented, "Ho-ho, a Solarian! And lacking
a pair of arms at that! Did you mislay them
jomeplace?” Leaning forward with a mani-
fest effort, he licked thick lips and added,
"What a dreadful fix you’ll be in if you
lose the others also!”

Lawson gave a disdainful snort. "For an
alleged mental therapist you’re long overdue
for treatment yourself.”

It did not generate the fury that might
well have been aroused in another. Kasine
merely wheezed with amusement and looked
self-satisfied.

"So you think I’m sadistic, eh?”

"Only at the time you made that remark.
Other moments: other motivations.”

"Ah!” grinned Kasine. "Whenever you
open your mouth you tell me something
useful.”

"You could do with it,” Lawson opined.
"And it seems to me,” Kasine went on,
refusing to be baited, "that you are not an
idiot.”

"Should I be?"

"You should! Every Solarian is an imbe-
cile.” He ruminated a moment, went on,
"The last one we had here was a many-ten-
driled octoped from Quamis. The authori-
ties on his home planet wanted him for
causing an end-or-the-world panic. His
illusion of Solarianism was strong enough
to make the credulous believe it But we
aren’t foolish octopeds here. We cured him
in tire end.”

"How?"

Kasine thought again, informed, "If I
remember aright, we fed him a coated pellet
of sodium and followed it with a jar of
water. Whereupon he surrendered his
stupidities with much fuss and shouting.
He confessed his purely Quamistic origin
shortly before his insides exploded.” Kasine
wagged his head in patronizing regret. "Un-
fortunately, he died. Very noisily, too.”
"Bet you enjoyed every instant of it,”
said Lawson.

"I was not there. I dislike a mess,”

"It will be worse when it’s your turn/'
observed Lawson, eyeing the enormous
body.

Heaving himself forward, Kasine de-
manded, "Exactly what do you mean by
that?”

"You live among your own kind, and
every dog has its day.”

"Dog? What in the seven suns is a dog?”
"I forgot. You don’t have them here.
Let’s say Si at every skouniss has its bite.”
"Is that so? Well, let me tell — ” He
stopped as a little gong sounded in the
depths of his desk. Feeling under the rim,
he pulled out a small plug at the end of a
line, inserted it in an ear and listened. After
a while he put it back, stared at tire other.
"Two officers tried to enter your ship.”
"That was foolish."

Kasine said heavily, "They are now lying
on the ground outside, completely para-
lyzed.”

"What did I tell you?” commented Law-
son, rubbing it in.

Smacking a fat hand on the desk, Kasine
made his voice loud. "What caused it?”
"Like all your kind, they are allergic to
formic acid,” Lawson informed. "It's a
fact I had ascertained in advance.” He gave
a careless shrug. “A shot of diluted ammonia
will cure them and they’ll never have rheu-
matics as long as they live.”

"I want no abstruse technicalities,™
harshed Kasine. "I want to know what
caused it.”

“Probably Freddy," thought Lawson,
little interested. "Or maybe it was Lou. Or
possibly Buzwuz.”

“Buzwuz?” Kasine’s eyes came up a bit
from their fatty depths. He wheezed a whila
before he said, "The message informs that
both were stabbed in the back of the neck

PLANET STORIES

12

by something tiny, orange-colored and
winged. What was it?”

"A Solarian.”

H IS self-control beginning to slip, Kasine
became louder. "If you are a Solarian,
which you are not, this other thing cannot
be a Solarian too.”

"Why not?”

"Because it is totally different. It has not
the slightest resemblance to you in any one
respect.”

"Afraid you’re wrong there.”

"Why?”

"It is intelligent.” Lawson examined the
other as though curious about an elephant
with a trunk at both ends. "Let me tell you
that intelligence has nothing whatever to do
with shape, form or size.”

"Do you call it intelligent to stab some-
one in the neck?” asked Kasine, pointedly.

"In the ''ircumstances, yes. Besides, the
resulting condition is harmless and easily
curable. That’s more than you can say for
an exploded belly.”

"We’ll do something about this.” Kasine
was openly irritated.

"It won’t be easy. Take Buzwuz, for in-
stanceT Though he’s small even for a bum-
ble-bee from Callisto, he can lay out six
horses in a row before he has to squat down
someplace and generate more acid.”

"Bumble-bee?” Kasine’s brows tried to
draw together over thick rolls of flesh.
"Horses?”

"Forget them,” advised Lawson. "You
know nothing of either.”

"Maybe not, but I do know this: they
won’t like it when we fill the ship with a
lethal gas.”

"They’ll laugh themselves silly. And it
won’t pay you to make my vessel uninhabit-
able.”

"No?”

"No! Because those already out of it will
have to stay out. Most of the others will get
out fast in spite of anything you can do to
prevent their escape. After that, they’ll have
no. choice but to settle down and live here.
I would not like that if I were you. 1
wouldn’t care for it one little bit.”
"Wouldn’t you?”

"Not if I were you which, fortunately,
I am not. A world soon becomes mighty un-

comfortable when you’ve got to share it
with hard-to-catch enemies steadily breeding
a thousand to your one.”

Kasine jerked and queried with some
apprehension, "Mean to say they’ll actually
remain her! and increase that fast?”

"What else would you expect them to
do once you’ve taken away their sanctuary?
Go jump in the lake just to please you?
They’re intelligent, I tell you. They will
survive even if they have to paralyze every
one of your kind in sight and make it per-
manent.”

The gong clanged again. Inserting the
ear-plug, Kasine listened, scowled, shoved
it back into its place. For a short time he sat
glowering across the desk. When he did
speak it was irefully.

"Two more,” he said. "Flat out.”
Registering a thin smile, Lawson sug-
gested, "Why not leave rdy ship alone and
let me see Markhamwit?”

"Get this into your head,” retorted
Kasine. "If any and every crackpot who
chose to land on this planet could walk
straight in to see tire Great Lord there would
have been trouble long ago. The Great Lord
would have been assassinated ten times
over.”

"He must be popular!”

"You are impertinent. You do not appear
to realize the peril of your own position.”
Leaning forward with a grunt of discomfort,
Kasine hushed his tones in sheer awe of
himself. "Outside that door are those em-
powered merely to ask questions. Here,
within this room, it is different. Here, I
make decisions.”

“Takes you a long time to get to them,”
said Lawson, unimpressed.

Ignoring it, the other went on, "I cm
decide whether or not your mouth gives
forth facts. If I deem you a liar, I can
decide whether or not it is worth turning
to less tender means of obtaining the real
truth. If I think you too petty to make even
your truths worth having, I can decide when,
where and how we shall dispose of you.”
He slowed down by way of extra emphasis.
"All this means that I can order your im-
mediate death.”

"The right to blunder isn’t much to boast
about,” Lawson told him.

“I do not think your effective remowd

DESIGN FOR GREAT -DAY

would be an. error,” Kasine countered.
"Those creatures in your ship are impotent
jo far as this room is concerned. What is
to prevent me from having you destroyed?”
“Nothing.”

"Ah!” Slightly surprised by this frank
admission, the fat face became gratified.
"You agree that you are helpless to save
yourself?”

"In one way, yes. In another, no.”
"Meaning?”

"You can have me slaughtered if you
wish. It will be a little triumph for you if
you like that sort of thing.” Lawson’s eyes
came up, looked levelly at the other’s. "It
would be wisest if you enjoyed the triumph
to the full and made the very most of it, for
it won’t last long.”

"Won’t it?”

"Pleasure is for today. Regrets are for
tomorrow. After the feast, the reckoning.”

"Oho? And who will present the bill?”

"The Solarian Combine.”

“FTTHERE you go again!” Kasine rubbed
JL his forehead wearily. "The Solarian
Combine. I am side and tired of it. Forty
times have I faced so-called Solarians all
of whom proved to be maniacs escaped or
expelled from some not too faraway planet.
But I’ll give you your due for one thing:
you’re the coolest and most collected of die
lot.

"I suspect that it is going to be rather
difficult to bring you to your senses. We may
have to concoct an entirely new technique to
deal with you.”

"Too bad,” said Lawson, sympathetically.
"Therefore I — ” Kasine broke off as the
door opened and a five-comet officer entered
in a hurry.

“Message from the Great Lord,” an-
nounced the newcomer. He shot an uneasy
glance at Lawson before he went on. "Re-
gardless of any condusion to which you may
have come, you are to preserve this arrival
intact, unharmed.”

"That’s taking things out of my hands,”
grumbled Kasine. "Am I not supposed to
know the reasons?”

Hesitating a moment, the officer said, “I
was not told to keep them from you.”

"Then what are they?”

"This example of other-life must be kept

in fit condition to talk. Reports have now
come in from the defense department and
elsewhere. We want to know how his ship
slipped through the planetary detector-
screen, how it got past the aerial patrols.
We want to know why the vessel differs
from all known types in the galaxy, where
it comes from, what gives it such tremen-
dous velocity. In particular, we must find
out the capabilities and military potential
of those who built the boat.”

Kasine blinked at this recital. Each of
these questions, he felt, was fully loaded
and liable to go bang. The mind behind his
ample features worked overtime. For all his
gross bulk he was not without mental agility.
And one thing he’d always been good at
sniffing was the smell of danger.

Words and phrases whirled through his
calculating brain: slipped past, origin, type
of ship, tremendous velocity, bumble-bees,
the coolest and most collected. His brilliant
and sunken eyes examined Lawson again.
In the light of what the officer had brought
he could now see more clearly the feature
of this strange biped that inwardly had
worried him most. It was a somewhat
appalling certitude!

He felt impelled to take a gamble. If it
did not come off he had nothing serious to
lose.

If it did he would get the credit for
great perspicacity.

Very slowly, Kasine said, "I think I can
answer those questions in part. This creature
claims that he is a Solarian. I consider it
remotely possible that he may be!”

"May be! A Solarian!” The officer stut-
tered a bit, backed toward the door. "The
Great Lord must know of this. I will tell
him your decision at once.”

"It is not a decision,” warned Kasine,
hastily insuring himself against future
wrath. "It is no more than a modest
opinion.”

He watched the other go out. Already he
was beginning to wonder whether he had
adopted the correct tactics or whether there
was some other , as yet unperceived but safer
play.

His gaze turned toward the subject
of his thoughts.

Lawson said, very comfortingly, "You’ve
just saved your fat neck.”

14

PLANET STORIES

M ARKHAMWIT went through the data
for the fourth time, pushed the papers
aside, walked restlessly up and down the
room.

“I don’t like this incident. I view it with
the greatest suspicion. We may be victims
©f a Nilean trick.”

"That is possible, my lord,” endorsed
Minister Ganne.

"Let’s suppose they’ve invented an entire-
ly new type of vessel they’ve reason to think
invincible. The obvious step is to test it as
conclusively as can be done. They must try
it out before they adopt it in large numbers.
If it can penetrate our defenses, land here
and get out again, it’s a success.”

"Quite, my lord.” Ganne had built his
present status on a firm foundation of con-
sistent agreement.

"But it would be a giveaway if it arrived
with a Nilean crew aboard,” Markhamwit
went on, looking sour. "So they hunt for
and obtain a non-Nilean life-form as ally.
He comes here hiding himself behind a
myth.” He smacked one pair of hands to-
gether, then the other pair. "All this is well
within the limits of probability. Yet, as
Kasine thinks, the arrival’s story may be
true.”

Ganne doubted it but refrained from say-
ing so. Now and again the million-to-one
chance turned up to the confusion of all
who had brashly denied its possibility.

"Get me Zigstrom,” decided Markham-
wit suddenly. When the connection had
been made he fitted the ear-plug, spoke
into the thin tube, "Zigstrom, we have
many authorities on the Solarian Myth. I
have heard it said there are one or two who
believe it to have a real basis. Who is the
Chief of these?”

He listened a bit, growled, "Don’t hedge
with me. I want his name. He has nothing
to fear.” A pause followed by, "Alemph?
Find him for me. I must have him here
without delay.”

The required expert turned up in due
course, sweaty with haste, dishevelled and
ill at ease. He came hesitantly into the
room, bowing low at every second step.

"My lord, if Zigstrom has given you the
impression that I am a leader of one of

these foolish cults, I must assure you that — ”

"Don’t be so jittery,” Markhamwit
snapped. "I wish to pick your mind, not
deprive you of your bowels/’ Taking a chair,
he rested his four arms on its rests, fixed
authoritative eyes upon the other. "You
believe that the Solarian Myth is something
more than a frontier legend. I want to know
why.”

"The story has repetitive aspects that are
too much for mere coincidence,” said
Alemph. "And there are other and later
items I consider significant.”

"I have no more than perfunctory knowl-
edge of the tale,” Markhamwit informed.
"In my position I’ve neither time nor in-
clination to study the folklore of our galaxy’s
outskirts. Be more explicit. You have been
brought here to talk, not to suffer.”

Alemph plucked up courage. "At one
edge of our galaxy are eight populated solar
systems fairly close together and arranged
in a semi-circle. They have a total of thirty-
nine planets. At what would be the center
of their circle lies a ninth system with seven
inhabitable planets devoid of any life higher
than the animals.”

"I am aware of that much,” commented
Markhamwit. "Carry on.”

"The eight populated systems have never
developed space travel even to the present
day. Yet when we first visited them we
found they knew many things about each
other impossible to learn by astronomical
observation. They had a strange story to
account for this knowledge, They said that
at some unspecified time in the very far
past they’d had repeated visits from the
ships of the Elmones, a life-form occupying
this ninth and now deserted system. All
eight believe that the Elmones ultimately
intended to master them by ruthless use of
superior techniques. They were to be sub-
dued and could do nothing effective to
prevent it.”

"But they weren’t,” Markhamwit ob-
served.

"No, my lord. It is at this point that the
myth really begins. All eight systems tell
the same story. That is an important thing
to remember. That is what I call too much
for coincidence.”

"Get on with it,” ordered the Great Lord,
showing a touch of impatience.

15

DESIGN FOR GREAT-DAY

Continuing hurriedly, Alemph said, "Just
at this time a strange vessel emerged from
tire mighty gulf between our galaxy and the
next one, made its landing on the Elmone’s
system as the most highly developed in that
area. It carried a crew of two small bipeds.
They claimed the seemingly impossible feat
of having crossed the gulf. They called
themselves Solarians. There was only one
piece of evidence to support their amazing
claim: their vessel had so tremendous a
turn of speed that while in flight it could
neither be seen nor detected."

"And then?”

u rpHE Elmones were by nature incurably

J- brutal and ambitious. They slaughtered
the Solarians and pulled the ship to pieces
in an effort to discover its secret. They failed
absolutely. Many, many years later a second
Solarian vessel plunged out of the enormous
void. It came in search of the first and it
-s6on suffered the same fate. Again its secret
remained inviolable.”

"I can credit that much,” said Markham-
wit. "Alien techniques are elusive when
one cannot even imagine the basis from
which they’ve started. Why, the Nileans
have been trying — ” He changed his mind
about going on, snapped, "Continue with
your story.”

"It would seem from what occurred later
that this second ship had borne some means
of sending out a warning signal for, many
years afterward, a third and far larger vessel
appeared but made no landing. It merely
circled each Elmone planet, dropped thou-
sands of messages saying that where death
is concerned it is better to give than receive.
Maybe it also bathed each planet in an
unknown ray, or momentarily embedded it
in a force-field such as we cannot conceive,
or dropped minute bacteria along with the
messages. Nobody knows. The vessel dis-
appeared into the dark chasm whence it
came and to the present day the cause of
what followed has remained a matter for
speculation.”

"And what did follow?”

"Nothing immediately. The Elmones
made a hundred crude jokes about the mes-
sages which soon became known to the other
eight systems. The Elmones proceeded with
preparations to enslave their neighbors. A

year later the blow fell, or it would be better
to say began to fall. It dawned upon them
that their females were bearing no young.
Ten years later they were frantic. In fifty
years they were numerically weak and utterly
desperate. In one hundred years they had
disappeared forever from the scheme of
things. The Solarians had killed nobody,
injured nobody, shed not a single drop of
blood. They had contented themselves with
denying existence to the unborn. The El-
mones had been eliminated with a ruthless-
ness equal to their own but without their
brutality. They have gone. There are now
no Elmones in our galaxy or anywhere in
Creation.”

"A redoubtable tale ready-made for the
numerous charlatans who have tried to ex-
ploit it,” said Markhamwit. "The credulous
are always with us. I am not easily to be
taken in by tall tales of long ago. Is this
all your evidence?”

"Begging your pardon, my lord,” offered
Alemph. "There are the seven inhabitable
but deserted worlds still in existence. There
is precisely the same story told by eight other
systems who remained out of touch until
we arrived. And, finally, there are these
constant rumors.”

"What rumors?”

"Of small, biped-operated and quite un-
catchable ships occasionally visiting the
smallest systems and loneliest planets in our
galaxy.”

"Bah!” Markhamwit made a gesture of
derision. "We receive such a report every
hundredth day. Our vessels repeatedly have
investigated and found nothing. The lonely
and the isolated will concoct any fanciful
incident likely to entice company. The
Nileans probably invent a few themselves,
hoping to draw our ships away from some
other locality. Why, we blew apart their
battleship Narsan when it went to Dhurg
to look into a story we’d permitted to reach
their stupid ears.”

"Perhaps so, my lord.” Having gone so
far, Alemph was not to be put off. "But
permit me to point out that well as we may
know our own galaxy, we know nothing of
others.”

Markhamwit eyed Minister Ganne. "Do
you consider it possible for an intergaJactk
chasm to be crossed?"

PLANET STORIES

16

"It seems incredible, my lord,” said
Ganne, more than anxious not to commit
himself. "Not being an astronautical expert
I am hardly qualified to give an opinion.”

“A characteristic ministerial evasion,”
scoffed Markhamwit. Resorting to his ear
plug and voice tube again, he asked for
Sector Commander Yielm, demanded, "Re-
gardless of the practical aspect, do you think
it theoretically possible for anyone to reach
us from the next galaxy?” Silence while he
listened, then, "Why not?” He listened
again, cut off, turned to the others. "That’s
his reason: nobody lives for ten thousand
years.”

"How does he know, my lord?” asked
Alemph.

H ALF a dozen guards conducted James
'Lawson to the august presence. They
formed themselves into a stiff, expression-
less row outside the door while he went into
the room.

His approach from the entrance to the
middle of the floor was imperturbable.
Nothing in his manner betrayed slightest
consciousness that he was very far from
home and among a strange kind. Indeed, he
mooched in casually as if sent on a minor
errand to buy a pound of crackers.

Indicating a chair, Markhamwit spent
most of a minute weighing up the visitor,
then voiced his scepticism. "So you are a
Solarian?”

"I am.”

"You come from another galaxy?”

"That is correct.”

Markhamwit shot a now-watch-this glance
at Minister Ganne before he asked, "Is it
not remarkable that you can speak our
language?”

"Not when you consider that I was chosen
for that very reason,” replied Lawson.
"Chosen? By whom?”

"By the Combine, of course.”

"For what purpose?” Markhamwit in-
sisted.

"To come here and have a talk with you.”
"About what?”

"This war you’re having with the
Nileans.”

"I knew it!” Folding his top arms, Mark-
hamwit looked self-satisfied. "I knew the
Nileans would come into this somewhere.”

His chuckle was harsh. "They are amateur-
ish in their schemings. The least they could
have done for you was to think up a pro-
tective device better than a mere myth. ’

"I am little interested in protective de-
vices,” said Lawson, carelessly. "Theirs or
yours.”

Markhamwit frowned. "Why not?”

”1 am a Solarian.”

"Is that so?” He showed his teeth, thin,
white and pointed. "In that case our war
with Nilea is none of your business.”
"Agreed. We view it with splendid in-
difference.”

"Then why come to talk about it?”
"Because we object to one of its con-
sequences.”

"To which one do you refer?” inquired
Markhamwit, no more than mildly curious.

"Both sides are roaming the spaceways in
armed vessels and looking for trouble.”
"What of it?”

Lawson said, "The spaceways are free.
They belong to everyone. No matter what
rights a planet or a system may claim for
its own earthly territory, the void between
worlds is common property.”

"Who says so?” demanded Markhamwit,
scowling.

"We say so.”

"Really?” Taken aback by tire sheer im-
pudence of it, the Great Lord invited a
further display by asking, "And what makes
Solarians think they can lay down the law?”
"We have only one reason,” Lawson told
him. His eyes took on a certain coldness.
"We have the power to enforce it.”

The other rocked back, glaftced at Minis-
ter Ganne, found that worthy studiously
examining the ceiling.

"The law we have established and intend
to maintain,” Lawson went on, "is that every
space-going vessel shall have the right of
unobstructed passage between worlds. What
happens after it lands does not concern us
unless it happens to be one of our own.”
He paused a moment, still cold-eyed, added,
"Then it does concern us very much.”
Markhamwit did not like that. He didn’t
like it one little bit. It smacked of an open
threat and his natural instinct was to react
with a counter-threat. But the interview
with Alemph was still fresh in his mind
and he could not rid his thoughts of certain

DESIGN FOR GREAT-DAY

phrases that kept running around and
around like a dire warning.

"Fifty years later they were weak and
desperate. In a hundred years they were
gone — forever!"

He found himself wondering whether
even now the ship in which this biped had
arrived was ready to broadcast or radiate
an invisible, unshieldable power designed
to bring about the same result. It was a
horrid thought. As a method of coping
with incurably antagonistic life-forms it was
so perfect because so permanent. It smacked
of the appalling technique of Nature her-
self, who never hesitated to exterminate a
biological error.

One tended to think that this biped was
talking out of the back of his neck. The
tendency was born of hope that it was
nothing but a tremendous bluff waiting to
be called. One could call it all too easily by
..removing the bluffer’s headpiece and tear-
ing his ship apart.

As the Elmones were said to have done.

What Elmones? There were none!

Suppose that it was not bluff?

V

M UCH as he hated to admit it even to
himself, the situation had unexpected-
ly shaped up into a tough one. If in fact
it was a cunning Nilean subterfuge it was
becoming good enough to prove mighty
awkward.

A ship had been dumped on this world,
the governmental center of a powerful
system at war. On the strength of an ancient
fable and its pilot’s glib tongue it claimed
die ability to sterilize the entire planet.
Therefore it was in effect either a mock-
bomb or a real one. The only way in which
to ascertain its real nature was to hammer
on its detonator and try make it explode.
Could he dare?

Playing for time, Markhamwit pointed
out, “War is a two-sided affair. Our battle-
ships are not the only ones patrolling in
space."

"We know it," Lawson informed. "The
Nileans are also being dealt with.”

"You mean you’ve another ship there?"
“Yes." Lawson registered a faint grin.

8— PLANET— January

17

"The Nileans are stuck with the same prob-
lem, and doubtless are handicapped by the
dark suspicion that it’s another of your
tricks.”

The Great Lord perked up. It gave him
malicious satisfaction to think of the enemy
in a jam and cursing him for it. Then his
mind suddenly perceived a way of at least
partially checking the truth of the other’s
statements. He turned to Ganne.

"That neutral world of Vaile still has
contact with both sides. Go beam it a call.
As if the Nileans have a vessel claiming to
be of Solar ian origin.”

Ganne went out. The answer could not be
expected before nightfall yet he was back
with it in a few moments.

Shaken and nervous, he reported, "The
operators say Vaile called a short time ago.
A similar question was put to us at the
request of the Nileans.”

"Hah!” Markhamwit found himself being
unwillingly pushed toward Alemph’s way
of Jooking at the matter. Folklore, he de-
cided, might possibly be founded on fact.
Indeed, it was more likely to have a positive
basis than not. Long-term effects had to
have faraway causes.

Then just as he was nearing the conclu-
sion that Solarians actually do exist it struck
him with awful force that if this were a
crafty stunt pulled by the Nileans they
could be depended upon to back up their
stooge in every foreseeable manner. The call
through Vaile could be nothing more than
a carefully planned by-play designed to lend
verisimilitude to their deception. If so, it
meant that he was correct in his first as-
sumption: that the Solar ian Myth was rub-
bish.

These two violently opposed aspects of
the matter got him in a quandary. His
irritation mounted because one used to mak-
ing swift and final decisions cannot bear to
squat on the horns of a dilemma. And he
was so squatting.

If Solarians were a lot of bunkum it
meant that the enemy were successfully
making a fool of him. If they were real,
and possessed one-tenth the power rumored
and implied, he might easily make a prize
fool of himself, with disastrous results. One
way or the other, he looked like being some
sort of idiot.

18

PLANET STORIES

Obviously riled, he growled at Lawson,
"The right to unobstructed passage covers
our vessels as much as anyone else’s.”

"It covers no warship bearing instructions
to intercept, question, search or detain any
other spaceship it considers suspicious,”
declared the other. "Violators of the law
are not entitled to claim protection of the
law.”

"Can you tell me how to conduct a war
between systems without sending armed
ships through space?” asked Markharnv.it,
bitterly sarcastic.

Lawson waved an indifferent hand. "We
aren't the least bit interested in that prob-
lem. It is your own worry.”

"It cannot be done,” Markhamwit
shouted.

"That’s most unfortunate,” remarked
Lawson, full of false sympathy. "It creates
an awful state of no-war.”

"Are you trying to be'funny?”

"Is peace funny?”

"War is a serious matter,” bawled Mark-
hamwit, striving to retain a grip on his
temper. "It cannot be ended with a mere
flick of the finger.”

"The fact should be borne in mind by
those who so nonchalantly start them,” ad-
vised Lawson, quite unmoved by the Great
Lord's ire.

"The Nileans started it.”

"They say that you did.”

"They are incorrigible liars.”

"That’s their opinion of you, too.”

A menacing expression on his face, Mark-
hamwit said, "Do you believe them?”

"We never believe opinions.”

"You are evading my question. Somebody
has to be a liar. Who do you think it is?”
"We haven’t looked into the root-causes
of your dispute. It is not our woe. So with-
out any data to go upon we can only hazard
a guess.”

"Go ahead and do some hazarding then,”
Markhamwit invited. He licked expectant
lips.

"Probably both sides have little regard
for the truth,” opined Lawson, undeterred
by the other's attitude. "It is the usual set-
up. When war breaks out the unmitigated
liar comes into his own. His heyday lasts
for the duration. After that, the victorious
liars hang the vanquished ones.”

Had this viewpoint been one-sided Mark-
hamwit could have taken it up with suitable
fury. A two-sided opinion is disconcerting.
It’s slippery. One cannot get an effective
grip on it.

So he changed his angle of attack by
asking, "Let’s suppose I reject your law and
have you shot forthwith. What happens
then?”

"You’ll be sorry.”

"I have only your word for that.”

"If you want proof you know how to get
it,” Lawson pointed out.

I T WAS an impasse over which the Great
Lord brooded with the maximum of
disgust. He was realizing for the first time
that by great daring one creature could defy
a world of others. It had pregnant possibili-
ties of which he had never previously
thought. Some ingenious use could have
been made of it, to the great discomfort of -,
the enemy — assuming that the enemy had
not thought of it first and were now using
it against him.

There was the real crux of the matter, he
decided. Somehow, anyhow, he had to find
out whether the Nileans had a hand in this
affair. If they had they would make every
effort to conceal the fact. If they had not
they would be only too willing to show
him that his troubles were also theirs.

But then again, how deep was their cun-
ning? Was it more than equal to his own
perceptive abilities? Might they not be ready
and willing to hide the truth behind a
smoke-screen of pathetically eager coopera-
tion?

If this new ship actually was a secret
Nilean production it followed that those
who could build one could equally well
build two. Also, the unknown allied world
that had provided a biped stooge plus some
winged, stinging creatures could provide a
second set of pseudo-Solarians.

So even now another fake extra-galactic
vessel and crew might be grounded on
Nilean territory waiting the inspection of
his own or some neutral deputation; every-
thing prepared to convince him that fiction
is fact that thereby persuade him to recall
all warships from the spaceways. That
would leavtf the foe a clear field for long
enough to enable them to grasp victory. He

DESIGN FOR GREAT -DAY

and bis kind would know that they had
been taken for a ride only when it was too
late.

About the sole crumb of comfort he could
find was the thought that if this were not
an impudent hoax, if all this Solarianism
were genuine and true, then the Nileans
themselves were being tormented by exactly
the same processes of reasoning. At this
very moment they might be viewing with
serious misgivings the very outfit that was
causing all his bother, wondering whether
or not the ship was supporting evidence
born of the Great Lord’s limitless foresight.

This picture of the Nileans’ predicament
served to soothe his liver sufficiently to let
him ask, "In what way do you expect me
to acknowledge this law of yours?’’

Lawson said, "By ordering the immediate
return of all armed vessels to their planetary
bases.”

"They’ll be a fat lot of use to us just
sitting on their home stations."

"I don’t agree. They will still be in fight-
ing trim and ready to oppose any attack.
We deny nobody the right to defend them-
selves.”

"That’s exactly what we’re doing right
now,” declared Markhamwit. "Defending
ourselves.”

"The Nileans say the same.’’

"I have already told you that they are
determined and persistent liars.”

"I know, I know.” Lawson brushed it
aside like a subject already worn thin, “So
far as we are concerned you can smother
every one of your own worlds under an
immense load of warships ready to annihi-
late the first attacker. But if they fight at all
it must be in defense of their territory.
They must not roam around wherever they
please and carry the war someplace else.”

"But—”

"Moreover,” Lawson went on, "you can
have a million ships roaming freely through
space if you wish. Their numbers, routes or
destinations would be nobody's business,
not even ours. We won’t object so long as
each and every one of them is a peaceful
trader going s&out its lawful business and
in no way interfering with other people’s
ships.”

iou won’t object?” echoed Markham-
wit, his temper again tried by die other’s

19

airy self-confidence. "That is most gracious
of you!”

Lawson eyed him coolly. “The strong can
afford to be gracious.”

"Are you insinuating that we are not
strong?”

"Reasonableness is strength. Irrationality
is weakness.”

Banging a hand on a chair arm, Mark-
hamwit declaimed, "There are many things
I may be, but there is one thing I am not:
I am not irrational.”

“It remains to be seen,” said Lawson
significantly.

"And it will be seen! I have not become
the ruler of a great system by benefit of
nothing. My people do not serve under a
leader whose sole qualification is imbecility.
Given time for thought and the loyal sup-
port of those beneath me, I can cope with
this situation or any other that may come
along.”

"I hope so,” offered Lawson in pious
tones. "For your own sake.”

Markhamwit leaned forward, exposed
his square teeth once more and spoke slow-
ly. "No matter what decision I may come to
or what consequences may follow, the skin
in danger is not mine. It is yours!” He
straightened up, made a motion of dismis-
sal. "I will give my answer in the morning.
Until then, do plenty of worrying about
yourself!”

"A Solarian deeply concerned about his
own fate,” Lawson informed, his hand on
the door, "would be rather like one of your
hairs bothered about falling out.” Opening
the door, he stared hard at the Great Lord
and added, “The hair goes and is lost and
becomes at one with the dust, but the body
remains.”

"Meaning — ?”

“You’re not dealing with me as an indi-
vidual. You are dealing with my kind!”

VI

T HE guard alerted and accompanied Law-
son to the interrogation center, left him
at the precise spot where they had first
picked him up. Going through the door, he
closed it behind him, thus cutting himself
off from their view. In leisurely manner he
ambled past desks where examiners looked

0 PLANET

tp from their eternal piles of forms to watch
im uncertainly. He had reached the main
■xit before anyone saw fit to dispute bis
; >rogress.

An incoming three-comet officer barred
his way and asked, "Where are you going?”
"Back to my ship.”

The other showed vague surprise. "You
have seen the Great Lord?”

"Of course. I have fust left him.” Then
with a confiding air, "We had a most
nteresting conversation. He wishes to con-
sult with me again first thing in the morn-
ing.”

"Does he?” The officer’s eyes hugely
magnified Lawson’s importance, It did not
take him a split second to conceive a simple
piece of logic: to look after Markhamwit’s
guest would be to please Markhamwit him-
self. So with praiseworthy opportunism he
said, "I will get a truck and run you back.”
"That is very considerate of you,” as-
sured Lawson, looking at the three comets
as if they were six.

It lent zip to the other’s eagerness. The
truck was forthcoming in double-quick time,
rolled away before Ganne or Kasine or any-
one else could intervene to question the
propriety of letting the biped run loose. Its
speed was high, its driver inclined to be
garrulous.

"The Great Lord is a most exceptional
person,” he offered, hoping it might be
repeated in his favor on the morrow.
Privately he thought Markhamwit a pom-
pous stinker. "We are most fortunate to
have such a leader in these trying times.”
“You could have one worse,” agreed
Lawson, blandly damning Markhamwit with
faint praise.

The officer was too engrossed to notice it.
"He will bring this war to a satisfactory

end.”

"I’ve not the slightest doubt of that,”
Lawson confirmed, nursing his own peculiar
definition of what was satisfactory.

“I remember once—” The other broke
off, brought the vehicle to an abrupt stop,
scowled toward the side of the road. In a
rasping voice he demanded of the new
object of his attention, "Who gave you
orders to stand there?”

"Nobody,” admitted Yadiz, dolefully.
"Then why are you there?”

STORIES

"He cannot be somewhere else,” re-
marked Lawson.

The officer blinked, studied the wind-
shield in complete silence for a while, then
twisted to face his passenger.

"Why can’t he?”

"Because wherever he happens to be is
there. Obviously he cannot be where he
isn’t.” Lawson sought confirmation of
Yadiz. "Can you?”

"I don’t know,” said Yadiz, leery of this
moot point and holding tightly to his gun.
One thing he did know was that he had
bandied words with this biped before.

Screwing up his eyes while he untangled
some mental threads, the officer said to Law-
son, “Now look, suppose that he was back
by the ship, where would he be?”

"There,” informal Lawson, devastatingly
positive.

"But he would not be here?”

"Oh, certainly not.”

"That’s what I’m getting at,” said the
officer, much relieved to find that his brain
really was hitting on all four. "I want to
know why he is here.”

"But he isn’t,” Lawson pointed out. "We
are here.” He nodded toward the side of
the road. "He is there."

Something snapped for the other prompt-
ly abandoned all further discussion, flung
open the truck’s door with a resounding
crash and snarled at Yadiz, "Get inside, you
gaping idiot!”

Yadiz got in, handling his weapon as if
it could bite him at both ends. The truck
moved forward. For the remainder of the
trip its driver hunched over the wheel,
chewed steadily at his bottom lip and said
not a word. Now and again his eyebrows
knotted with the strain of thought as he
made vain attempts to sort out the unsort-
able.

At the guard-ring the paunchy individual
who had first consigned the arrival to the
interrogation center watched the truck jerk
to a stop and the trio get out. He came up
frowning.

"So they have let him go?”

"Yes,” said the driver, knowing no better.

“Whom did he see?”

"The Great Lord himself.”

The other gave a little jump, viewed
Lawson with embarrassed respect and took

21

DESIGN FOE GREAT-DAY

some of the authority out of his tones.

"They didn’t say what is to be done about
these four casualties we’ve suffered?"

"Made no mention of them,” die driver
answered. "Maybe they — ”

Lawson chipped in, "I'll tend to them.
Where are they?”

"Over there.” He indicated a dip to his
left "We couldn’t shift them pending in-
structions.”

"It wouldn’t have mattered. They’d have
recovered by this time tomorrow, anyway.”

“ft isn’t fatal then?”

"Not at all,” Lawson assured. "Ill go
get them a shot of stuff that will bring
them to life in two ticks.”

He went toward the ship. The driver
climbed moodily into his truck and headed
back to town. Turning, the paunchy officer
noticed Yadiz for the first time. Going up
to him, he surveyed him slowly from top
to bottom. Then again, in complete silence,
from bottom to top.

Finally he barked, "From where have you
come?”

“Nefersdinel,” informed Yadiz, naming
a straw-built kraal some twenty horizons

away.

"Nefersdinel?” The officer was incredu-
lous. "In the name of the seven suns, what
were you doing there?”

"Being born,” admitted Yadiz nervously.
"And growing up.”

“Fool!” he roared. "I want to know from
what post you have wandered.”

“The one next to Boonsnucker’s,” Yadiz
told him very hurriedly.

The officer nursed his stomach with his
lower hands and held his forehead with the
upper ones. He seemed strangely distraught
Watching him, Yadiz conceived the notion
that someone had blundered, but who or
how was a complete mystery.

Regaining control of himself, the officer
said with careful pronunciation, "I do'not
know a person named Boonsnucker, Neither
do I desire the acquaintanceship of anyone
bearing so repulsive a cognomen. Therefore
ft might be best if you showed me your post
in clearly visible manner.” He paused, glow-
ering, then yelled at the top of his voice,
"Point!"

Yadiz stuck out a startled arm.

"Go there,” ordered the other in the sam®

enraged bellow. "And stay there!"

Yadiz went.

T HE creature perched on the rim of the
little controlroom’s observation-port was
the size of Lawson’s fist. Long extinct Ter-
ran bees would have thought it a giant
among their kind. Modern Callistrian ones
might have regarded the Terran variety as
bade ward pygmies had there been any real
consciousness of Callistrianism or Terran-
ism or any other form of planetary paro*
dualism.

But at this far advanced stage of devel-
opment of an entire solar system there had
ceased to be an acute awareness of worldly
origin, shape or species. A once essential
datum in the environment had been dis-
carded and no longer entered into the com-
putations of anyone. The biped was not
mentally biased by his own bipedal form;
the insect not obsessed by its insectual condi-
tion. They knew themselves for what they
were, namely, Solarians and two aspects of
one colossal entity that had a thousand other
facets elsewhere.

Indeed, the close-knit relationship be-
tween life-forms far apart in shape and size
but sharing a titanic oneness in psyche had
developed to the point where they could
and did hold mental intercourse in a manner
not truly telepathic. It was "self -thinking,”
the natural communion between parts of an
enormous whole.

So Lawson had no difficulty in conversing
with a creature that had no aural sense
adequately attuned to the range of his voice,
no tongue with which to speak. The com-
munication came easier than any vocal
method, was clear and accurate, left no room
for linguistic or semantic booby-traps, no
need to explain the meaning of meaning.

He flopped into the pilot’s seat, gazed
meditatively through the port and opined,
"I’m not sanguine about them being rea-
sonable.”

"It does not matter,” commented the
other. “The end will be the same.”

"True, Buzwuz, but unreasonableness
means time and trouble.”

"Time is endless; trouble another name
for fun,” declared Buzwuz, being profound.
He employed his hind kgs to clean the rear
part of his velvet jacket.

PLANET STORIES

22

Lawson said nothing. His attention
shifted to a curiously three-dimensional
picture fastened to the side wall. It depicted
four bipeds, one of whom was a swart
dwarf, also one dog wearing sun-glasses, six
huge bees, a hawklike bird, a tusked monster
vaguely resembling a prick-eared elephant,
something else like a land-crab with long-
fingered hands in lieu of claws, three pecul-
iarly shapeless entities whose radiations had
fogged part of the sensitive plate, and
finally a spiderlike creature jauntily adorned
with a feathered hat.

This characteristically Solarian bunch
was facing the lens in the stiff, formal
attitudes favored by a bygone age and so
obviously were waiting for the birdie that
they were unconsciously comical. He treas-
ured this scene for its element of whimsy,
also because there was immense significance
in the amusing similarity of pose among
creatures so manifestly unconscious of their
differences. It was a picture of unity that is
strength; unity born of a handful of planets
and a double-handful of. satellites circling
a common sun.

Another bee-mind as insidious as part
of his own came from somewhere outside
the ship, saying, "Want us back yet?”

"No hurry.” . ,

"We’re zooming around far beyond the
city,” it went on. “We’ve shown ourselves
within reach of a few of them. They swiped
at us without hesitation. And they meant
it!” A pause, followed by, "They have in-
stinctive fear of the unfamiliar. Reaction-
time about one- tenth second. Choice of re-
action: that which is swiftest rather than
that which is most effective. Grade eight
mentalities lacking unity other than that
imposed upon them from above.”

”1 know.” Lawson squirmed out of his
seat as a heavy hammering sounded on the
ship’s shell somewhere near the airlock.
"Don’t go too far away, though. You may
have to come back in a rush.”

Going to the lock, he stood in its rim
and looked down at a five-comet officer. The
caller had an air of irateness tempered by
apprehension. His eyes kept surveying the
area above his head or straining to see past
the biped’s legs lest something else spring
out to the attack.

"You’re not supposed to be here,” he

informed Lawson.

"Aren’t I? Why not?”

"Nobody gave you permission to return.”
"I don’t need permission,” Lawson told
him.

"You cannot come back without it,” the
other contradicted.

Registering an expression of mock-baffle-
ment, Lawson said, "Then how the deuce
did I get here?”

"I don’t know. Someone blundered.
That’s his worry and not mine.”

“Well, what are you worrying about?”
Lawson invited.

"I’ve just had a message from the city
ordering me to check on whether you are
actually here because, if so, you shouldn’t be.
You ought to be at the interrogation center.”
"Doing what?”

"Awaiting their final decisions.”

"But they aren’t going to make any,” said
Lawson, with devastating positiveness. "It
is we who will make the final ones.”

The other, didn’t like the sound of that.
He scowled, watched the sky, kept a wary
eye on what little he could see of the ship’s
interior.

"I’ve been instructed to send you to the
city at once.”

"By whom?”

"Military headquarters.”

"Tell them I’m not going before morn-
ing.”

“You’ve got to go now,” insisted the
officer.

"All right. Invite your superiors at head-
quarters to come and fetch me.”

"They can’t do that.”

"I’ll say they can’t!” agreed Lawson, with
hearty emphasis.

This was even less to the visitor’s taste.
He said, "If you won’t go voluntarily you’ll
have to be taken by force.”

"Try it.”

"My troops will receive orders to attack.”
“That’s all right with me. You go shoo
them along. Orders are orders, aren’t they?”
"Yes, but—”

"And,” Lawson continued firmly, “It's the
order-givers and not the order-carry -outers
who’ll get all the blame, isn’t it?”

"The blame for what?” inquired the
officer, very leerily.

"You’ll find out!”

23

DESIGN FOR GREAT-DAY

The other stewed ft a bit What would
be found out he decided, was anyone’s
guess, but his own estimate was that it could
well be something mighty unpleasant. The
biped’s attitude amounted to a guarantee
of that much.

There was a chance that the said unpleas-
antness might be of such a nature that
injured feelings would be soothed by noth-
ing less than disembowelment of a scape-
goat. In that even a suitable candidate would
have to be found. His mind swiftly con-
cocted half a dozen short lists of names upon
whom the big brass could vent their spleen.
The lists had one most disturbing feature:
each bore his own name right at the top.

"I think I’ll get in touch again, tell them
you refuse to leave this vessel and ask for
further instructions,” he decided, rather
lamely.

"That’s the boy,” indorsed Lawson, show-
ing hearty approval. "You look after your-
self and yourself will look after you.”

“Eh?”

"Always remember that me is the best
friend of I.”

"I know neither of those individuals,”
said the officer, doing some mental fumbling
around,

"Then you shouldn’t let them get into
your bed,” Lawson reproved in highly moral
tones. Bestowing a look of condemnation,
he left the lock and went back to the
pilot’s room.

VII

T HE Great Lord Markhamwit paced up
and down the room in the restless man-
ner of one burdened by an unsolvable prob-
lem. Every now and again he made a vicious
slap at his harness, a sure sign that he was
considerably exercised in mind and that his
Ever was feeling the strain.

"Well,” he snapped at Minister Ganne,
"have you been able to devise a satisfactory
way out?”

"No, my lord,” admitted Ganne, ruefully.
"Doubtless you retired and enjoyed a
good night’s sleep without giving it another
thought?”

"Indeed, no, I—”

"Never mind the lies. I am well aware
that everything is left to me.” Going to his

desk he employed its plug and tube, asked,
"Has the biped started out yet?” Getting a
response, he resumed his pacing. "At last
he condescends to come and see me. He will
be here in half a time-unit.”

"He refused to return yesterday,” re-
marked Ganne, treating disobedience as
something completely outside all experience.
"He viewed all threats with open disdain
and practically invited us to attack his ship.”
“I know, I know.” Markhamwit dis-
missed it with an irritated wave of the
hand. "If he is a bare-faced bluffer it can
be said to his credit that he is a perfect one.
There is the real source of all the trouble.”
“In what way, my lord?”

"Look, we are a powerful life-form, so
much so that after we have defeated the
Nileans we shall be complete masters of our
entire galaxy. Our resources are great, our
resourcefulness equally great. We are highly
scientific. We have spaceships and formi-
dable weapons of war. To all intents and
purposes we have conquered the elements
and bent them to our will. That makes us
strong, does it not?”

"Yes, my lord, very strong.”

"It also makes us weak,” growled Mark-
hamwit. "This problem dumped in our laps
proves that we are weak in one respect,
namely, we have become so conditioned in
dealing with concrete things that we don’t
know how to cope with intangibles. We
match rival ships with better ships, enemy
guns with bigger guns. But we are stalled
immediately a foe abandons all recognized
methods of warfare and resorts to what may
be no more than a piece of sheer, unparal-
leled impudence.”

"Surely there must be some positive way
of checking the truth and — ”

"I can think of fifty ways.” Markhamwit
ceased his trudging and glared at Ganne as
if that worthy were personally responsible
for the predicament. "And the beauty of
them all is that not One is genuinely work-
able.”

"No, my lord?”

“No! We could check on whether Solar-
ians actually do exist in the next galaxy if
our ships could get there, which they can’t.
And neither can any other ship, according
to Yielm. We could make direct contact
with the Nileans, call off the wax and

PLANET STORIES

21

arrange mutual action against Solarian inter-
lopers, but if the whole affair is a Nilean
trick they will continue to deceive us to our
ultimate downfall. Or we could seize this
biped, strap him to an operating table and
cut the truth out of him with a scalpel.”
"That ought to be the best way,” ventured
Ganne, seeing nothing against it.

"Undoubtedly, if his story is a lot of
bluff. But what if it is not?”

"Ah!” said Ganne, feeling for an itch
and pinching deep into his hide.

"The whole position is fantastic,” de-
clared Markhamwit. "This two-armed crea-
ture comes here without any weapons iden-
tifiable as such. Not a gun, not a bomb, not
a ray-projector. So far as we know there
isn’t so much as a bow and arrow on his
boat. His kind have killed nobody, injured
nobody, shed not a drop of blood either
now or in our past, yet he claims powers of
a kind we hesitate to test.”

“T\0 YOU suppose that we are already
' sterilized and therefore doomed, like
the Elmones?” Ganne asked, plainly uneasy.

"No, certainly not. If he had done such a
thing he would have blasted off during the
night because there would be no point in
dickering with us any longer.”

"Yes, that’s true.” Ganne felt vastly re-
lieved without knowing why. It would be
no hairs out of his hide if posterity failed
to appear. In another fifty years’ time there
would be none left of his own generation
to care who bossed which galaxies. That
was the great beauty of being dead: one
could then be so splendidly indifferent to
matters that agitated the living. There were
occasions then Ganne relished a morbid
viewpoint.

Markhamwit continued, “Anyway, he’s
said nothing whatever about such methods
of dealing with us. We know of them only
fictionally, as part of the Solarian Myth.
The sole threats he has made are that if we
destroy him we shall then have to cope with
those winged creatures who will remain here
to outbreed us, and that if by some means
we succeed in destroying them also, we shall
still have to face whatever the Combine may
bring against us later on. I cannot imagine
fee true nature of that particular menace

except that by our standards it will be un-
orthodox.”

"Their methods may represent the normal
ways of warfare in their own galaxy,”
Ganne pointed out. "Perhaps they never got
around to inventing guns and high explo-
sives. ”

"Or perhaps they discarded them a mil-
lion years ago in favor of techniques less
costly and more effective.” Markhamwit cast
an impatient glance at the time recorder
whirring on the wall. "Trickery or not, I
have learned a valuable lesson from this
incident. I have learned that tactics are more
important than instruments, wits are better
than warheads. If we had used our brains a
bit more we might have persuaded the
Nileans to knock themselves out and save us
a lot of bother. All that was needed was a
completely original approach.”

"Yes, my lord,” agreed Ganne, privately
praying that he would not be commanded
to suggest one or two original approaches.

"What I want to know,” Markhamwit
went on, bitterly, "and what I must know is
whether the Nileans have thought of it first
and are egging us' on to knock ourselves out.
So when this self-professed Solarian arrives
I’m going to — ”

He ceased as a knock sounded, the door
opened and the captain of the guard showed
himself, bowing low.

"My lord, the alien is here.”

“Show him in.”

Plumping heavily into a chair, Markham-
wit tapped restless fingers on four arm rests
and glowered at the door.

E NTERING blithely, Lawson took a
seat, smiled at the waiting pair and
asked, "Well, does civilization come to these
parts or not?”

It riled the Great Lord, but he ignored
the question, controlled his temper and said
heavily, "Yesterday you returned to your
vessel contrary to my wishes.”

"Today your warships are still messing
around in free space contrary to ours.” Law-
son heaved a sigh of resignation. "If wishes
were fishes we’d never want for food.”
“You appear to forget,” informed Mark-
hamwit, "that in this part of the cosmos it
is my desires that are fulfilled and not
yours!”

DESIGN FOR GREAT DAT

"But you’ve just complained about yours
being ignored,” remarked Lawson, pretend-
ing surprise.

Markhamwit licked sharp teeth. "It won’t
happen again. Certain individuals made the
mistake of letting you go unopposed, with-
out question. They will pay for that. We
have a way with fools.”

"So have we!”

"That is something of which I require
proof. You are going to provide it.” His
voice had an authoritative note. "And what
is more, you are going to provide it in the
way I direct, to my complete satisfaction.”
"How?” inquired Lawson.

"By bringing the Nilean high command
here to discuss this matter face to face.”
"They won’t come.”

"I guessed you’d say that. It was such a
certainty that I could have said it for you.”
Markhamwit displayed satisfaction with his
own foresight. "They’ve thought up an im-
pudent bluff. Now they’re called upon to
support it in person by chancing their pre-
cious hides. That is too much. That is taking
things too far. So they won’t do it.” He
threw a glance at Minister Ganne. "What
did I tell you?”

"I don’t see how the Nileans or anyone
else can bolster a non-existent trick,” offered
Lawson, mildly.

"They could appear before me to argue
the problem. That would be convincing so
far as I’m concerned.”

"Precisely!”

Markhamwit frowned. "What d’you
mean, precisely?”

"If it’s a stunt of their own contriving
why shouldn’t they back it to the limit and
risk a few lives on it? The war is on and
they’ve got to suffer casualties anyway. If
they can dig up volunteers for one dangerous
mission they can find them for another.”
"So?”

"But they won’t gamble one life on a
set-up they suspect to be of your making.
There’s no percentage in it.”

"It is not of my making. You know that.”
"The Nileans don’t,” said Lawson.

"You claim to have another ship on their
world. What’s it there for if not to persuade
them?”

"You’re getting your ideas mixed.”

"Am I?” Markhamwit’s grip was tight

25

on the arms of his chair. He’d almost had
enough of this biped. "In what way?”

"The vessel is there solely to tell the
Nileans to cease cluttering the space lanes —
or else! We’re not interested in your meet-
ings, discussions or wars. You can kiss and
be friends or fight to the death and it makes
not the slightest difference to us one way or
the other. All that we’re concerned about
is that space remains free, preferably by
negotiation and mutual agreement. If not,
by compulsion.”

"Compulsion?” snapped Markhamwit. "I
would give a great deal to learn exactly how
much power your kind really does possess.
Perhaps little more than iron nerves and
wagging tongues.”

"Perhaps,” admitted Lawson, irritatingly
indifferent.

"I’ll tell you something you don’t know.”
Markhamwit leaned forward, staring at him.
"Our first, second, third and fourth battle
fleets have dispersed. Temporarily I’ve taken
them out of the war. It’s a risk, but worth
it.”

"Doesn’t alter the situation if they’re still
chasing around here, there and everywhere.”

"On the contrary it may alter the situation
very considerably if we have a fair measure
of luck,” contradicted Markhamwit, watch-
ing him closely. "They have been redirected
into a colossal hunt. I now have a total of
seventeen thousand vessels scouting all
cosmic sectors recently settled or explored
by Nileans. Know what they’re looking
for?”

Mr _ it

I can guess.

"They’re seeking a minor, unimportant,
previously unnoticed planet populated by
pink-skinned bipeds with hard faces and
gabby mouths. If they find it” — he swept
an arm in a wide, expressive arc — "we’ll
blow them clean out of existence and the
Solarian Myth along with them.”

"How nice.”

"We shall also deal with you in suitable
manner. And we’ll settle with the Nileans
once and for all.”

"Dear me,” offered Lawson, meditatively.
"Do you really expect us to sit around for
ever while you play hunt the slipper?”

For the umpteenth time thwarted by
the other’s appalling nonchalance, Mark-
hamwit lay back without replying. For »

PLANET STORIES

26

wild moment he toyed with the notion that
perhaps the Nileans were infinitely more
ingenious than he’d first supposed and were
taking him for a sucker by manning their
ship with remotely controlled robots. That
Would account for this biped’s unnatural
impassivity. If he were nothing more than
fee terminal instrument of some highly
complicated array of electronic apparatus
operated by Nilean science from afar, it
would account for his attitude. A talking-
machine has no emotions.

But it just wasn’t possible. Months ago,
before the war started, a radio-beamed
message to the nearest fringe of Nilean’s
petty empire had to be relayed from planet
to planet, system to system, took a long time
to get there, an equally long time for a
reply to come back. It was completely be*
yond the power of any science, real or
imaginary, so to control an automaton across
many light years that it could respond
conversationally with no time lag whatso-
ever.

Lawson, he decided uneasily, was robotic
in some ways but definitely not a robot.
Rather was he a life-form possessed of real
individuality plus a queer something else
impossible to describe. A creature to whom
an unknown quantity or quality has been
added and therefore unlike anything former-
ly encountered.

Emerging from his meditations, he
growled, "You’ll sit around because you’ll
have no choice about the matter. I have
ordered that you be detained pending my
further decisions.”

"That doesn’t answer my question,” Law-
son pointed out.

"Why doesn’t it?”

"I asked whether you expect us to sit
around. What you see fit to do with this por-
tion can have no effect upon the remainder.”

"This portion,” echoed Markham wit, his
air that of one not sure whether he has heard
aright "I have got all of you!” He pressed
a stud on his desk.

Lawson stood up as the guards came in,
smiled thinly and said, "I can tell you a
fable of the future. There was once an idiot
who picked a grain of sand from a moun-
tain, cupped it in the palm of his hand and
said, 'Look, I am holding a mountain!’ ”

"Take him away,” bawled Markhamwit

at the escort "Keep him behind bars until
I want him again.

Watching them file out, and fee door
close, he fumed a bit. "Creating cockeyed
problems for others is a game at which two
can play. In this existence one has to use
one’s wits.”

"Undoubtedly, my lord,” indorsed Min-
ister Ganne, dutifully admiring him.

"So if the Nileans are behind this set-up
they’ll now have to jump a thousand places
at once. If they are not, and if there really
are Solarians, I’ve faced them with the fact
that I’ve not reacted as the Elmones are
said to have done. I’ve not slaughtered their
emissary. I’ve not withdrawn my warships
from space but neither have I refused to do
so — yet! They can chew on that for a while.”

"Yes, my lord.”

"But he called me an idiot,” added Mark-
hamwit, displaying imperial ire.

"Of course, my lord,” said Ganne, absent-
mindedly.

Markhamwit turned on him and roared,'
"What do you mean, of course?”

His bowels going weak, Ganne pleaded
in desperation, "I thought you said, 'I call
him an idiot.’ So I agreed as that was also
my impression.”

“Hah! You seek to escape by transferring
fee blame from your tongue to your ears.”
Markhamwit studied him with unconcealed
suspicion. “Someday, Ganne, you will escape
everything by transferring your neck to a
noose.”

Mournfully self-conscious, Ganne said
nothing, busily occupied himself pursuing
three simultaneous itches.

VIII

J AMES LAWSON carefully surveyed his
cell. Large and fairly comfortable, with
a queer-shaped bed, a thick, straw-stuffed
mattress, the inevitable four-armed chair, a
long, narrow table. A generous basket of
fruit stood on the middle of the latter, also
some brownish objects resembling whole-
meal cakes.

He was as amused by the sight of the
food as he had been by the rough courtesy
with which the guard had conducted him
here. Evidently Markhamwit had been
specific in his instructions. Put him ia fee

DESIGN FOR GREAT -DAY

jug. Don’t harm him, don’t starve him, but
put him in the jug.

Markhamwit wanted it both coming and
going. The Great Lord was establishing a
claim to kindness as a form of insurance
against whatever might befall while, at the
same time, keeping the victim just where he
wanted him until thoroughly satisfied that
nothing dreadful could or would befall.

There was a small barred window twenty
feet up, more for ventilation than for light.
The only other opening was the big grille
across the entrance. A guard sat on a stool
the other side of the bars boredly reading a
narrow but thick cylindrical scroll which he
unwound slowly as his gaze followed the
print down.

Tilting back in the chair and resting his
heels on the end rim of the bed, Lawson had
a look at his ship. This was fully as easy
as staring at the blank walls of the cell. All
that was necessary was to readjust his mind
and look through other eyes elsewhere. It can
be done, indeed it becomes second nature
when the mind behind the other eyes is to
all intents and purposes a part of one’s own.

He got a multiple picture because he was
looking through multiple lenses, but he was
accustomed to that. Meeting and knowing
other shapes and forms is as nothing com-
pared with the experience of actually shar-
ing them, even those employing organs
stranger than eyes.

The ship was resting exactly as he’d left
it. Its lock still stood wide open but nobody
was entering or attempting to do so. The
guards maintained their ring, watched the
vessel in the perfunctory manner of those
already sick of the sight of it. He could see
Yadiz mooning dolefully behind a rode and
Boonsnucker squatting in his hole.

As he studied the scene the swiftly mov-
ing eyes swung low, dived toward an officer
who loomed enormously with sheer close-
ness. The officer made a wild swipe at the
eyes with a short sword curved two ways
like a double sickle. Involuntarily Lawson
blinked, for it came like a slash at his own
head. His neck went taut as the shining
blade whistled through the space occupied
by his gullet had he been there in person.

"Someday, Lou,” he thought, "I’ll do as
much for you. I’ll give you a horrible night-
mare."

27

The bee-mind came back. "Ever looked
through somebody landbound, trying to
escape danger on legs and without wings?
That is a nightmare!” A pause as what
could be seen through his optics showed him
to be zooming skyward. "Want out yet?”

"No hurry,” Lawson answered.

Withdrawing from that individual he re-
angled his mind and let it reach outward,
tremendously outward. This, too, was rela-
tively easy. The velocity of light is sluggish,
creeping when compared with near-instan-
taneous contact between mental components
of a psychic whole. Thought is energy, light
is energy, matter is energy, but the greatest
of these is thought.

Some day his enormously advanced multi-
kind might prove a thesis long evolved:
that energy, light and matter are creations
of super-thought. They were getting might-
ily near to it already: just one or perhaps
two more steps to godhood when they’d
have finally established the mastery of mind
over matter by using the former to create
the latter according to their needs.

So there was no time lag in his reaching
for the central world of Nilea, nor would
there have been one of any handicapping
duration had he reached across the galaxy
and over the gulf into the next. He merely
thought "at” his objective and was there,
seeing through eyes exactly like his own
at the interior of a ship exactly like his
own except in one respect : it harbored" no
big bees.

This other vessel’s crew consisted of one
biped named Edward Reeder and four of
those fuzzy, shapeless entities who had
fogged his souvenir picture. A quartet of
Rheans, these, from a moon of the ringed

E lanet. Rheans in name only, Solarians in
>ng-established fact.

Callistrian bees wouldn’t be of much avail
in coping with Nileans who were likely to
hang around inviting hearty stings for the
sheer pleasure of resulting intoxication.
Their peculiar make-up enabled them to
get roaring drunk on any acid other than
hydrofluoric, and even that corrosive stuff
was viewed as a liquid substitute for scoot
berries.

But the Nileans were south-eyed, scan-
ning a band of the spectrum that ran well
into the ultra violet. And one has to be

PLANET STORIES

28

decidedly north-eyed to see a Rhean with
real clarity. So far as local life-forms were
concerned this Solarian vessel was crewed
by one impertinent biped and several near-
ghosts. Like most creatures suffering optical
limitations, the Nileans suspected, disliked
— aye, feared — living things never more
than half visible.

It might have been the same with other
Solarians in their attitude toward peculiar
fellows from a moon of the ringed planet
but for one thing: that which cannot be
examined visually can be appreciated and
understood mentally. The collective Rhean
mind was as much intimate part of the
greater Solarian mass-mentality as was any
other part. The bipeds and the bees had
phantom brothers.

R EEDER was thinking "at” him, "I’ve
just returned from the third successive
interview with their War Board, which is
bossed by a hairy bully named Glastrom.
He’s completely obsessed by the notion that
your Markhamwit is trying to outsmart
him.”

"Similar reaction at this end. I’ve been
stuck in dink while Markhamwit waits for
destiny to intervene in his favor.”

"They’ve come near trying the same tactic
with me,” informed Reeder’s mind, show-
ing strange disinterest in whether or not the
other was being made to suffer during his
incarceration. "Ghief item that has made
them hesitate is the problem of what to do
about the rest of us.” His gaze shifted a
moment to the shadowy, shapeless quartet
posing nearby. "The boys put over a mild
demonstration of what can be done by
wraiths with the fidgets. They switched off
the city’s light and power and so forth while
crosseyed guards fired at the minor moon.
The Nileans didn’t like it.”

"Can’t say they’re overfond of our crowd
here, either.” Lawson paused thoughtfully,
went on, "Chronic distrust on both sides is
preventing conformity with our demands
and seems likely to go on doing so until the
crack of doom. Markhamwit is in a mental
jam and his only solution is to play for
time.”

"Same way with Glastrom and the War
Board.”

“Limit their time,” interjected four

laconic but penetrating thought-forms from
the shapeless ones.

"Limit their time," simultaneously in-
dorsed several bee-minds from a source
much nearer.

"Give them one time-unit,” confirmed a
small and varied number of entities scattered
through the galaxy.

"Give them one time-unit,” decided an
enormous composite mentality far across the

gulf.

"Better warn them right away.” Reeder’s
eyes showed him to be making for the open
lock. His mind held no thought of personal
peril that might arise from this ultimatum.
He was as ageless as that of which he was
part, and as deathless because, whether
whole or destroyed, he was part of that
which can never die. Like Lawson, he was
man plus men plus other creatures. The first
might disappear into eternal nothingness,
but the plus-quantities remained for ever
and ever and ever.

For the same reasons Lawson followed
the same course in much the same way. The
intangible thread of his thought-stream
snapped back from faraway places and the
eyes he now looked through were entirely
his own. Taking his heels off the bed, he
stood up, yawned, stretched himself, went
to the grille.

"I’ve got to speak to Markhamwit at
once.”

P UTTING down the scroll, the guard
registered the disillusioned expression
of one who hopes everlastingly for peace
and invariably hopes in vain.

"The Great Lord will send for you in
due course,” he informed. "Meanwhile you
could rest and have a sleep.”

"I do not sleep.”

"Everybody sleeps sometimes or other,”
asserted the guard, unconsciously dogmatic.
“They have to.”

"Speak for yourself,” advised Lawson.
"I’ve never slept in my life and don’t intend
to start now.”

"Even the Great Lord sleeps,” mentioned
the guard with the air of one producing
incontrovertible evidence.

"You’re telling me?” Lawson inquired.
The other gaped at him, sniffed around
as if seeking the odor of a 'dimly suspected

DESIGN FOR GREAT- DAY

insult. "My orders are to keep watch upon
you until the Great Lord wishes to see you
^ again.”

"Well, then, ask him if he so wishes.”

"I dare not.”

"All right, ask someone who does dare.”
'* It got the guard in a fix. He did not want
to do anything about this matter, neither
did he wish to reveal his lack of desire. He
foresaw trouble if he did take the required
action, trouble if he didn’t. So he picked up
the scroll, stared at it uncertainly, put it
down, fumbled with his top pair of hands,
then with the lower ones, and mentally
consigned this alien nuisance to the farthest,
biggest and hottest star in the galaxy.
"Won’t it keep until tomorrow?”

"You know quite well that the Great
Lord’s business will never keep until tomor-
row,” reproved Lawson. "It is urgent, im-
portant and takes precedence over every-
thing else.”

"I’ll call the captain of the guard,” de-
cided the other with sudden alacrity.

He went along the passage, came back
in short time with a larger and surlier speci-
men who glowered at the prisoner and de-
manded, "Now, what’s all this rubbish?”
Eyeing him with exaggerated incredulity,
Lawson said, "Do you really dare to define
the Great Lord’s personal affairs as rub-
bish?”

The captain’s pomposity promptly hissed
out of him like gas from a pricked balloon.
He appeared to shrink in size and went two
shades paler in the face. The guard edged
away from him like one fearful of being
contaminated by open sedition.

"I did not mean it that way.”

“I sincerely hope not,” declared Lawson,
displaying impressive piety.

Recovering with an effort, the captain
asked, "About what do you want to speak
to the Great Lord?”

"I’ll tell you after you’ve shown me your
certificate.”

"Certificate?” The captain was mystified.
"Which certificate?”

"The document proving that you have
been appointed the censor of the Great
Lord’s conversations.”

The captain said hurriedly, "I will go
and consult the garrison commander.”

He went away with the pained expression

of one who has put his foot in it and must
find somewhere to scrape it off. The guard
resumed his seat on the stool, mooned at
Lawson, killed a cootie.

"I’ll give him a hundred milliparts,”
Lawson remarked. "If he’s not back by then,
I’m coming out.”

The guard stood up, hand on gun, face
showing alarm. "You can’t do that.”

"Why not?”

"You are locked in.”

"Hall!” said Lawson as it enjoying a
secret joke.

"Besides; I am here.”

"That’s unfortunate for you,” Lawson
sympathized. "Either you’ll shoot me or you
won’t. If you don’t, I’ll walk away and
Markhamwit will be most annoyed. If you
do, I’ll be dead and he’ll be infuriated.”
He shook his head slowly. "Tsk-tsk! I would
not care to be you!”

His alarm amounting to a near-unbearable
point, the guard tried to watch the grille
and the end of the passage at the same time.
His relief was intense when the captain re-
appeared and ordered him to unlock.

The officer said to Lawson, "The com-
mander passed on your request. You will
be permitted to talk over the line to Minis-'
ter Ganne. The rest is up to him.”

Leading the way, with the guard in the
rear, he conducted the prisoner to a small
office, signed to a plug and tube. Taking
them up, Lawson held the plug to his eai,
it being too big to fit in the locally accepted
manner. At the same time his mind sent out
a soundless call shipwards.

"This is as good a time as any.”

Then he listened to the plug and heard
Ganne saying, "What you want to tell the
Great Lord can be told to me.”

"Pass him the news that he’s got seven-
eighths of a time-unit,” Lawson suggested.
"They’ve wasted the other eighth at this
end. “

Out one corner of his eye he noted the
listening captain registering surly displeas-
ure. His gaze lifted, observed that the door
and two windows were half open. Lou,
Buzwuz and the others would have no
trouble, no trouble at all.

"He’s got seven-eighths of a time-unit?”
echoed Ganne, his voice rising a fraction.
"To do what?”

SO PLANET STORIES

"Beam his orders for recall.”

"Recall?"

L AWSON said with tired patience,
"You’re only wasting valuable mo-
ments repeating the end of each sentence.
You know what I meant. You were there all
the time, listening to our talk. You’re not
hard of hearing, are you?”

Ganne snapped, "I’ll stand for no gross
impertinence from you. I want to know pre-
cisely what you mean by saying that the
Great Lord has seven-eighths of a time-
unit.”

"It’s more like thirteen-sixteenths now.
He has got to take action by then.”

“Has he?" sneered Ganne. “Well, sup-
pose he doesn’t?”

"We’ll take it.”

"That comes well from you. You’re in
no — ”, His voice broke off as another one
sounded authoritatively in the background.
More dimly he could be heard saying, "Yes,
my lord. It’s the biped, my lord.”

Behind him in the little office Lawson
could also hear something else: a low drone
coming nearer, nearer, through the door,
through the window. There were exclama-
tions from the other pair, a few scuffling,
jumping noises, two thin yelps, two dull
thumps and silence.

Markhamwit came on the line, spoke in
harsh tones. "If you hope to precipitate the
issue by further bluff, you are very much
mistaken.” Then with added menace, "Re-
ports from my fleets have now started to
come in. Sooner or later I’ll get the one for
which I am waiting. I shall then deal with
you rather drastically.”

"You’ve now got approximately three-
quarters of a time-unit,” Lawson gave back.
"At the end of that period we shall take
the initiative, do whatever we consider to
be for the best. It won’t be drastic because
we shed no blood, take no lives. All the
same, it will be quite effective.”

"Will it?” Markhamwit emitted sardonic
chuckles. "In that case I will do part of
that which you require of me. In other
words, I will institute action at 'the exact
moment you have nominated. But it will be
the action I deem best fitted to the circum-
stances.”

"Time’s marching on,” remarked Law-

son. The drone had left the room but could
still be heard faintly from somewhere out-
side. He could see the soles of a pair of re-
cumbent jackboots lying near his own feet.

"You cannot get to your ship, neither can
you communicate with it,” Markhamwit
went on, highly pleased with the situation.
"And in precisely three-quarters of a time-
unit there will be no ship to which you can
return. The aerial patrol will have blasted
it clean out of existence while it sits there,
a steady target that cannot be missed.”

"Can’t it?”

"The sterilizing apparatus, if there is one,
will be vaporized with it before it can be
brought into action. Any winged things left
flying around will be wiped out one by
one as and when opportunity occurs. Since
you’ve seen fit to push this matter to a sud-
den conclusion I am prepared to take a
chance on anything the Solarian Combine
may do.” Finally, with sarcasm, "If there
is a Solarian Combine and if it can do
anything worth a moment’s worry.”

He must have flung down the plug and
tube at his end, for his voice went less
distinct as he said to Ganne, "Get Yielm
for me. I’m going to show those Nileans
that hoodwinking is a poor substitute for
bombs and bullets.”

Dumping his own end of the line. Law-
son turned, stepped over two bodies unable
to do more than curse him with their eyes.
Going outside, he found himself in a large
yard.

He crossed this diagonally under the
direct gaze of half a dozen guards patrolling
the wall top. Curiosity was their only reason
for watching him, the interesting spectacle
of a life-form not listed among the many
with which they were familiar. It was his
manifest confidence that fooled them, his
unmistakable air of having every right to be
going wherever he was going. Nobody
thought to question it, not a momentary
notion of escape crossed their minds.

Indeed, one of them obliged by operating
the lever that opened the end gate, and
lived to damn the day when he permitted
himself to be misled by appearances. Not
to be outdone, another whistled a passing
truck which stopped for the fugitive. And
the driver, too, found later reason to deplore
the pick-up.

DESIGN FOR GREAT -DAY

L AWSON said to the driver, "Can you
•take me to that ship on the plain?”
"I’m not going that far.”

"It’s a matter of major importance. I’ve
just been speaking to Minister Ganne about
it.”

"Oh, what did he say?”

"He put me on to the Great Lord who
-old me I’ve got little more than half a
ime-unit to spare.”

"The Great Lord,” breathed the other,
with becoming reverence. He revved up,
sent the truck racing onward. "I’ll get you
there in plenty of time.” He twisted the
wheel, cut around a dilapidated vehicle
bearing a pair of four-comet officers who
seemed to resent being overtaken by any-
thing. "This war teaches you to put a move
on.”

"It does,” agreed Lawson, bracing bis
feet against the floorboards. There was a
■loud blare from behind and he asked,
"What’s that?”

The driver had a look by craning his
neck out the door, there being no rear view
mirror. For a moment the truck zig-zagged
as if tempted to ditch itself.

"Those two officers. They want to get
ahead of us again.”

"So what?”

T ought to let them.”

"Why?”

"High rank takes precedence when it
wishes.”

"Not over the Great Lord’s own interests,
surely?” said Lawson, amazed.

"No, you bet not!” The driver firmed his
jaw, zipped the pace up. The horn behind
at once gave out an infuriated howl which
persisted for quite a time but gradually
faded with distance. The driver appeared
to be experiencing an inward enjoyment
that he did not choose to express in words.

There was no need to burst through the
guard-ring; it no longer existed. Troops
had been withdrawn to a safe distance, as-
sembled in a solid bunch, and were leaning
on their arms like an audience awaiting a
rare spectacle. A couple of officers danced
and gestured as the truck swept alongside
the ship, but they were far off, well beyond
calling distance, and the driver failed to
notice them.

"Thanks!” Lawson tumbled out of the

31

cab. "One good turn deserves another, so
I’m telling you to get out faster than you

came. ”

The other blinked at him. "Why?”

' Because in about one-fifth of a time-unit
a dollop of bombs will land right here.
You’ll make it with plenty to spare pro-
vided you don’t sit there gaping.”

Though puzzled and incredulous, the
driver saw clearly that this was a poor time
to probe further into the matter. Taking the
offered advice, he got out fast, his vehicle
rocking with sheer speed.

Lawson entered the lock, closed it behind
him. He did' not bother to inquire whether
all his crew were aboard. He knew that they
were there in the same way that they had
known of his impending return and in-
tended take-off.

Dumping himself into the pilot’s seat he
fingered the controls, eyed the ship’s chro-
nometer thoughtfully. He’d got just seventy-
two milliparts in which to beat the big
bang. So he shifted a tiny lever one notch
and went out from under.

The vacuum created by the vessel’s depar-
ture sucked most of the troops’ hats from
their heads, snatched away the gun on which
Boonsnucker was propped and compelled
him to prostrate himself in the dirt. Yadiz
was luckier. He merely bent before the vio-
lent wind and busted the most embarrassing
section of his harness.

High above, the aerial patrol swooped
and swirled, held on to its missiles and
sought in vain for the target.

IX

T HE world was a wanderer, a planet torn
loose from its parent sun by some catas-
trophe far back in the tremendous past.
At an equally distant time in the future it
would be captured by some other star and
either join the new family or be destroyed.
Meanwhile it curved aimlessly through
space, orphan of a bygone storm.

It wasn’t cold, it wasn’t dark. Internal
fires kept it warm. Eternal stars limned it in
pale, ethereal light. It had tiny, pastel-
shaded flowers and thin, delicate trees that
pushed their feet toward the warmth and
kept their faces to the stars. It also held
sentient life, though not of its own creation.

32 PLANET STORIES

There were fourteen ships on this un-
charted sphere. Eleven were Solarian. One
was Nilean. Two belonged to the Great
Lord Markhaxnwit. The Solarian vessels
were grouped together in a gentle valley
in one hemisphere. The remainder were on
the opposite side of the planet, the Nileans
separated from their foes by a couple of
hundred miles, each combatant unaware of
the other’s existence.

The situation of these last two groups was
a curious one. Each of their three ships had
detected the gypsy-sphere at times a few
days apart and landed upon it in the hope
of discovering bipeds or, at least, gaining
some clue to their whereabouts. Each crew
had promptly suffered an attack of mental
aberration verging upon craziness, exploded
the armory, wrecked the vessel and thus
marooned themselves. Each crew now sat
around stupified by their own idiocy and
thoroughly convinced that not another space-
ship existed within a billion miles.

The secret of this state of affairs reposed
with two of the eleven Solarian vessels.
These had on board a number of homa-
rachnids, spiderish quasi-humans from a
place unknown to the galaxy, a hot, moist
world called Venus. It happened that this
world circled around an equally unknown
sun called Sol. Which meant that the homa-
rachnids were Solarians along with the
bipeds and bees and semivisible fuzzies.

From the purely military viewpoint there
was nothing redoubtable about homarach-
nids. They were unsoldierly, knew nothing
of weapons and cared nothing either. They
were singularly lacking in technical skills,
viewed even a screwdriver as a cumbersome,
patience-straining device. Outwardly, their
most noticeable feature was an incurable
penchant for wearing the most incongruous
feathered hats that the milliners of Venus
could devise. In some respects they were
the most childlike of the Solarian medley.
In one way they were the most deeply to
be feared, for they had refractive minds.

With the absolute ease of those to whom
it comes naturally any homarachnid could
concentrate the great Solarian mass-mental-
ity, projecting if and focusing it where
required. The burning point of an immense
magnifying glass was as nothing to the effect
caused when a non-Solarian mind became

the focal point of an attentive homarachnid's
brain. The result was temporary but absolute
mental mastery.

It had to be temporary. The Solarian ethic
denied the right to bring any mind into
permanent subjection, for that would
amount to slavery of the soul. But for this,
any pair of homarachnids could have com-
pelled antagonistic warlords to "see reason"
in a mere couple of milliparts. But mentally
imposed agreement is worth nothing if it
disappears the moment the cause is removed.
The final aim must be to persuade Mark-
hamwit and Glastrom to cooperate from
motives of expediency and for keeps. The
same ethic insisted that this goal be reached
without spilling of life fluids if possible,
or else at cost of blood only to the high and
mighty.

Nobody knew better than Solarians that
wars are not caused, declared or willingly
fought by nations, planetary peoples or
shape-groups, for these consist in the main
of plain, ordinary folk who crave nothing
more than to be left alone. The real culprits
are power-drunken cliques of near-maniacs
who by dint of one means or another have
coerced the rest. These were the ones to
provide the blood if any was going to be
shed at all.

Lawson and Reeder and the rest knew
the operations of the Solarian mass-mind as
well as they knew their own, for it was com-
posed in part of their own. They were
sharers in an intellectual common property.
Therefore no issuing of detailed orders was
necessary to get them to do whatever might
be needed. Decisions reached them in iden-
tically the same form as if thought out by
their independent selves.

As others had found to their cost and
would do so again and again, the Solarians
had* an immense advantage in being able
to give highly organized battle without
benefit of complicated signalling and com-
munications systems. So far as Solarians
were concerned, lack of such antiquated
technical adjuncts was lack of something
susceptible to error, something to go wrong.
There would be no mistaken charge of a
light brigade in their history.

Lawson’s ship was one of the assembled
eleven. Reeder’s was another. Seven more
had come in from lonelier parts of the

DESIGN FOR GREAT -DAY 33

galaxy for the same purpose: to rendezvous
with the remaining two and add a few
homarachnids to their crews. Had the enemy
been of different nature they might have
been reinforced by a different shape, perhaps
elephantine creatures from Euro pa or dark
dwarfs from Mars. The physical instruments
were chosen to suit the particular task, and
the hat-models of Venus would do fine for
this one.

T WO of them, gray-skinned and bristly-
haired of body, six-legged and with
compound eyes, scuttled aboard Lawson’s
vessel, sniffed suspiciously through organs
that were not noses, looked at one another.

"I smell bugs,” announced the one
adorned with a purple toque around which
a fluffy plume was tastefully coiled.

"This can needs delousing,” agreed the
other who wore a glaring red fez with a
long, thin crimson ribbon protruding verti-
cally from its top.

"If you prefer," offered Lawson, "you
can go on Reeder’s boat.”

"What, with that gang of spooks?” Ele
cocked the toque sidewise. "I’d sooner suffer
the bugs.”

"Me too," agreed Red Fez.

"That is most sociable of you,” sneered
the mind-form of Buzwuz, chipping in sud-
denly. He zoomed out of the navigation-
room and into the passage, an orange ball
on flashing wings. "I think we can manage
to — ” He broke off as he caught sight of
the arrivals, let out a mental screech of
agony, whirled round in circles. "Oh, look
at them! Just look!”

"What’s the matter?” aggressively de-
manded he in the purple toque whose name
this year was Nfam. Next year it would
be Nfim. And the year after, Nfom.

"The vile headgear,” complained Buz-
wuz, shuddering visibly, "Especially That
red thing.”

Th owner of the fez, whose current name
was Jlath, waxed indignant, "I’d have you
know this is an original creation by the
famous Oroni and — ”

"O’Rooney must be nuts,” declared Buz-
wuz, without any doubt whatsoever.

"I said Oroni,” corrected Jlath severely.
"He's far and away the greatest — ”

J — PLANET — January

Frowning at all and sundry, Lawson
interrupted, "When you mutual monstros-
ities have finished swapping compliments
maybe you’ll make ready Tor take-off. The
fact that we’re inertialess doesn’t mean you
can clutter up the passage.” He slammed the
door of the lock, fastened it, went, to the
pilot’s cabin and moved the little lever.

That left ten ships. Reeder’s departed
soon afterward. Then the others, one by one.
And that left nothing but three ruined
cylinders and three ruminative crews unable
to do anything but mourn their own inex-
plicable madness.

X

F IRST contact was one of the Great
Lord’s heavy battle cruisers, a long,
black cylinder well-armed with large caliber
guns and remotely controlled torpedoes. It
was heading at fast pace for Kalambar, a
blue-white sun with a small system of
planets located on the rim of what the
Nileans regarded as their sphere of interest.
Those aboard it had in mind that the Ka-
lambar group was believed to be habitable
but little else was known about it, therefore
it was a likely hiding-place of Nilean allies,
two-legged or winged.

Lawson knew of this cruiser’s existence
and intent long before it loomed large
enough to obscure a noticeable portion of
the starfield and even before sensitive de-
tectors started clicking to mark the presence
of something metallic, swift-moving and
emitting heat. He knew of it simply because
the exotically-hatted pair probed forth as
twin channels of a faraway supermind, had
no difficulty in picking up the foe’s group-
thoughts or determining the direction,
course and distance of the source. All he
had to do was take the ship where they
indicated, knowing in precise detail what
he’d find when he got there.

Even at the tremendous velocities com-
monplace only to another galaxy the catch-
ing-up took time. But they made it in due
course, burst out of the starfield with such
suddenness that they were bulleting at equal
pace and on parallel course before the
other’s alarm system had time to give warn-
ing.

By the time the bells did set up their

34

PLANET

clamor it was too late. With remarkable
unanimity the crew had conceived several
strange notions and were unable to sense
the strangeness simply because all were
thinking alike. Firstly, the alarm was about
to sound and that must be the signal for
action. Secondly, it was sheer waste of pre-
cious lifetime to mess around in empty space
when one could put in some real existence
on good, solid earth. Thirdly, there was a
suitable haven shining through the dark
four points to starboard and much nearer
than Kalambar. Fourthly, to place the ship
completely out of action on landing would
be the most certain way of ensuring a long
period of rest and relaxation.

These ideas ran contrary to their military
conditioning, were directly opposed to duty
and discipline, but they accorded with in-
ward instincts, secret desires, and moreover
were imposed with suggestive power too
great to resist.

So the alarm system duly operated and
the battle cruiser at once turned four points
to starboard. With the Solarian boat follow-
ing unheeded it sped straight for the adja-
cent system, made its landing on a world
owned by backward, neutral and embar-
rassed Dirkins who were greatly relieved
when a loud bang marked the vessel’s dis-
abling and its crew proceeded to lounge
around like beachcombers. Only thing the
Dirkins could not understand was why this
party of intended lotus-eaters suddenly
became afflicted with vain regrets coinciden-
tally with the disappearance of that second
ship from the sky.

In short order twenty-seven more vessels
went the same way, turning off route, dump-
ing themselves on the nearest habitable
sphere and sabotaging themselves clean out
of the war. Seventeen of these belonged to
the Great Lord Markhamwit; ten to the
Nileans. Not one resisted. Not one fired a
gun, launched a torpedo or so much as took
evasive action. The partway products of
science are pitifully ineffectual when sud-
denly confronted with the superb end-pro-
duct, namely, superiority of the brain over
all material things.

N EVERTHELESS, ancient ingenuity did
try to strike a telling blow at the ultra-
modern when Lawson came across ship

STORIES

number twenty-nine. The manner in which
this one was discovered told in advance of
something abnormal about it. The detectors
reported it while Jlath and Nfam were
mentally feeling through the dark and get-
ting no evidence of anything so near. The
reason: the homarachnids were seeking
enemy thought-forms and this ship held no
thoughts, not one.

Orbiting around a lesser moon, the mys-
tery vessel’s design and markings showed it
to be an auxiliary warship or armed freighter
of Nilean origin. An old and battered
rocket-job long overdue for scrapping, it
appeared to have been pressed into further
service for the duration of the war. It had
a medium gun in its bow, fixed torpedo
tubes to port and starboard and could aim
its missiles only by laboriously positioning
itself with respect to the target. A sorry
object fit for nothing but escort duty on
short runs in a quiet sector, it seemed
hardly worth the bother of putting down to
ground.

But Lawson and his crew were curious
about it. An old but quite intact spaceship
totally devoid of evidence of thinking men-
talities was somewhat of a phenomenon. It
could mean several unusual things all
equally worth discovering. No matter how
extremely remote the likelihood of anyone
developing a screen that homarachnids could
not penetrate in search of mind-forms lurk-
ing behind, the theoretical possibility could
not be ruled out. Nothing is finally and
completely impossible.

Alternatively there was the million to one
chance that the vessel was crewed by a non-
thinking, purely reactive and robotic life-
form allied to the Nileans. Or, more plausi-
bly, that one of Markhamwit’s warships was
employing a new weapon capable of slaugh-
tering crews without so much as scratching
their vessels, and this particular vessel was
a victim. Or, lastly and likeliest, that it had
been abandoned and left crewless but care-
fully parked in a balanced orbit for some
reason known only to the deserters.

As the Solarian boat swooped toward the
point marked by its detectors, Nfam and
Jlath strove hurriedly to probe the nearby
moon for any minds holding the secret of
the silent objective. There wasn’t time. They
whirled high above the target, automatically

DESIGN FOR GREAT -DAT 35

recorded its nature, type and markings, and
in the next breath had been carried leagues
beyond it. The Solarian ship commenced to
turn into a wide curve that would bring it
back for another once-over. They did not
get a second look.

Designed to cope with objects moving
considerably slower, the instruments aboard
the silent freighter registered the presence of
another vessel just a little too late. In less
than a millipart, vacuum tubes flashed, re-
lays snapped over and the freighter ex-
ploded. It was vivid and violent blast guar-
anteed to disable and possibly destroy any
battleship that came within snooping dis-
tance. It failed in its intent solely because
die prospective recipient of the thump
already was far outpacing the flying frag-
ments, of which there were plenty.

"Booby trap,” said Lawson. "We’d have
been handed a beautiful wallop if our maxi-
mum velocity was down to the crawl that
local types regard as conventional.”

"Yes,” responded a bee-mind from some-
where nearer the tail. "And did those two
mad hatters warn you of it? Did you hear
them screaming, 'Don’t go near! Oh, please,
don’t go near!’ and feel them pawing at
your arm?”

"It seems to me,” remarked Nfam to
Jlath, "that I detect the sharp, grating voice
of jealousy, the bitter whine of a lesser
life-form incapable of and unsuitable for
self adornment.”

"We don’t need it,” retorted the critic
back. "We don’t have to return to artificial
devices as a means of lending false color
to pale, insipid personalities. We have — ”

"No hands,” put in Nfam, with great
dexterity.

"And they fight with their rear ends,”
added Jlath for good measure.

"Now see here, Frog-food, we — ”

"Shut up!” roared Lawson with sudden
violence.

They went silent. The ship bulleted on-
ward in search of target number thirty.

T HE next encounter provided an orgy
that served to illustrate the superiority
of mass-mind efficiency as compared with
artificial methods of communication and co-
ordination. Far off across the wheel of light
that formed the galaxy a Solarian named

Ellis pursued a multitude of bellicose
thought-forms traced by his homarachnids
and discovered two fleets assembling for
battle. The news flashed out to all and
sundry even as he snatched a super-dread-
nought lumbering toward the scene and
planted it where it would stay put.

Lawson immediately altered course,
boosted his vessel to detector-defeating
velocity. There was a long way to go ac-
cording to this galaxy’s estimates of dis-
tances but a relative jaunt from the Solarian
viewpoint. Unseen and unsuspected, tire
vessel scudded over a host of worlds, most
of them uninhabitable, sterile, deserted.

At one point Nfam’s questioning mind
found a convoy of ten ships huddled to-
gether and heading for the system of a
binary, determined them to be neutral trad-
ers hoping to make port without inter-
ference by one or the other belligerents.
Farther on, nearer the twin suns, a pair of
Markhamwit’s light destroyers hung in
space ready to halt and search the convoy
for whatever they saw fit to declare illegal
transport of strategic war materials. The
Solarian vessel promptly cut' its speed,
herded these two wolves into a suitable
cage, raced onward. The convoy continued
to plug along innocent of the obstruction
so arbitrarily removed from its path.

By the time Lawson got there the scene
of intended conflict already had lost some
of its orderliness and was dissolving toward
eventual chaos. A Nilean force of many
hundreds had disposed itself in a huge
hemisphere protecting a close-packed group
of seven solar systems that were not worth
a hoot. Markhamwit’s fleet commanders ac-
cordingly reasoned that such strength w'ould
be marshaled only to defend a sector vital
to the enemy’s war economy and that there-
fore these seven systems must be captured
and scoured regardless of cost. Which -was
what the Nileans wanted them to think, for,
being slightly the weaker party, they knew
the value of diverting attention from gen-
uinely critical points by offering the foe
a glittering but valueless prize elsewhere. So
both sides beamed frantic orders to and fro,
strove to get ready to rend the heavens for
the sake of what neither could use. The
trouble was that preparations refused to
work out as they should have done accord-

PLANET STORIES

36

ing to the book.

Established tactics of space warfare seemed
to be becoming disestablished. Orthodox
methods of squaring up to the enemy were
not producing orthodox results. The recog-
nized moves of placing light forces here
and heavy ones there, a spearhead thus
and a defensive screen so, a powerful re-
serve in that place and a follow-up force
in this place, were making a fine mess of
the whole issue. Bewilderment among com-
manders on both sides resembled that of an
expert who finds that a certain experiment
produces the same results nine hundred
ninety-nine times but not the thousandth.

Introduction of a new and yet unidentified
factor was the cause of all this. The time
lag in their communications beam systems,
with coded messages flashed from repeater
station to repeater station, was so great that
none in this sector knew what had happened
to the impudent visitors on their home
worlds or that Solarians had turned from
argument to action. True, some ships were
overdue in this area and presumed lost,
but that was inevitable. Losses must be ex-
pected in time of war and there was nothing
to be gained by investigating the fate of
the missing or by trying to ascertain the
cause of their disappearance.

So deeply embedded were these notions
that for quite a time both sides remained
blindly unaware of what was happening
right under their noses. And the emotions
of opposing commanders remained those of
extreme irritation rather than real alarm.
Inside their military minds conditioning
masqueraded as logic and stated that a fight
was trying to get going, that any fight is
between two parties with nobody else pres-
ent except maybe one or two mere lookers-
on. Such pseudo-reasoning automatically
prevented swift realization of intervention
by a third party. Whoever heard of a three-
sided battle?

Mutually bedevilled, both belligerents
postponed their onslaughts while they con-
tinued to try and get ready, meanwhile
blundering around like a pair of once-eager
boxers temporarily diverted from their
original purpose by the sudden appearance
of numerous ants in the pants.

And the ants kept them on the hop.
Lawson’s vessel plummeted unseen and un-

detected right into the middle of the Nilean
hemisphere, picked up three boats thunder-
ing along under orders to patrol off a cer-
tain planet, put them down on said planet
for keeps. So far as the Nilean order-
giver was concerned, three of his vessels
had commenced to move in obedience to
commands, had continuously signalled
progress, then cut off without warning as if
snatched out of Creation. He sent a light,
fast scout to discover what had occurred.
That one radiated messages until within
viewing distance of the appointed post and
went silent. He sent another. Same result.
It was like dropping pennies down the
drain. He gave up, reported the mystery to
battle headquarters, sought under his back-
strap for a persistent nibbler that had been
pestering him all day.

The causes of all this cussedness would
have been identified more quickly and easily
had one crew been able to beam a warn-
ing that they were about to come under
the mental mastery of those in a strange
vessel of unknown origin. But none were
ever aware of what was about to happen.
None were aware that it had happened
until the cause had gone elsewhere, the
influence had been removed and they found
themselves sitting on solid earth and dumb-
foundedly contemplating a vessel converted
to so much scrap.

It was like stealing lollipops from the in-
mates of a babies’ home except that there
always lurked an element of danger due
to lining up of fortuitious circumstances
that none could anticipate. Ellis and his ship
and crew went out of existence in a bril-
liant flash of light when they dived down
upon what appeared to be a Nilean flotilla
moving at sedate pace toward the hemi-
sphere’s rim and discovered one millipart
too late that it consisted of a heavy cruiser
shepherding under remote control a group
of unmanned booby traps.

E VERY Solarian in the tremendous area
knew of this counter-blow the instant
the stroke took place 1 . Everyone sensed it as
a sudden cessation of life that has been a
small part of one’s own. It was like the
complete vanishing from one’s mind of a
long-held and favorite thought. None
brooded. None felt a pang of regret. They

37

DESIGN FOR GEE AT -DAY

were not inclined to such sentiment because
sorrow can never remove its own cause, A
few hairs had fallen from an immense cor-
porate whole, but the body remained.

Half a time-unit afterward James Lawson
and his crew exacted sweet revenge, not
with that motive, but purely as a tactic.
They did it by making opportune use of the
enemy’s organizational setup which like
many sources of great strength was also a
source of great weakness. Weld men and
materials into a mighty machine and they
are thereby converted into something ca-
pable of mighty collapse the moment the
right nut or bolt is removed.

A formidable Nilean battle squadron of
one hundred forty assorted ships was run-
ning out of the hemisphere in a great, curv-
ing course that eventually would position
them slightly behind the extreme wing of
Markhamwit’s assembly. This was the strictly
orthodox move of trying to place a flanking
party strong enough to endanger any main
thrust at the center. If Markhamwit’s scouts
spotted this threat, his array would have to
divert a force able to meet and beat it. It
was all so easy for those who sat in opposing
battle headquarters, planning and counter-
planning, directing vessels here and there,
operating the great combat machines.

And just because the machines were
machines, Lawson had no difficulty in pull-
ing out an essential bolt. He took over the
entire squadron lock, stock and barrel. All
that was necessary was for Nfam and Jlath
to gain mental mastery of those aboard tire
admiral’s vessel commanding the rest. One
ship! The others did exactly as this enslaved
vessel ordered, moving through space like
a flock of sheep.

The big squadron turned into a new
course, built up to top velocity because
the admiral’s boat so ordered. They ignored
the now visible Solarian stranger in their
midst because the admiral unquestioningly
accepted its presence. They pushed for their
faraway home world as fast as they could
drive because The Boss so commanded.

Lawson stayed with them to the half-
way point and long after he’d left they con-
tinued on course, made no attempt to re-
turn. The Boss was not going to admit to an
entire fleet that he was afflicted with men-
tal! confusion, could not remember receiv-

ing or transmitting an order to head for
home. Obviously he must have had such in-
structions, or why were they here, making
for where they were going? Best to keep
straight on and hide the fact that he was
subject to spasms of dopiness. So on they
went, one hundred forty vessels bamboozled
right out of the fray.

In short time Reeder’s vessel performed
a similar service for tire Great Lord. A re-
serve force of eighty-eight ships, mostly
heavy cruisers, pushed homeward with
closed signal channels in accordance with
orders from their own commanding officer.
Soon informed of this unauthorized depar-
ture, the top brass at battle headquarters
foamed at the mouth, switched switches,
levered levers and stabbed buttons, filled the
ether with contra-commands, threats and
bloodthirsty promises while still the reserve
continued to blunder through tire starfield
with all receivers sealed and no mutinous
ears burning.

Bombs and bullets are of little avail with-
out intelligence to direct them. Take away
the intelligence, if only for a little while,
and the entire warmaking appurtenances of
a major power become so much junk. The
Solarian attack was irresistibly formidable
because it was concentrated on the very
root-cause of all action, the very motivating
force behind all instruments great or small.
Solarian logic argued that gun-plus-mind
is a weapon whereas gun-without-mind is a
mere article no matter how inherently ef-
ficient.

Tire Nilean booby traps were no excep-
tion, neither was any other robotic arm, for
in effect they were delayed action weapons
from which minds had gone into hiding
by removing themselves in space and time.
The minds originating each booby trap were
difficult to trace, hence the fate suffered by
Ellis and his crew. But in the long run
they were being dealt with as ship after
ship became grounded, squadrons, flotillas
and convoys departed for someplace else
and chaos threatened to become complete.
In proof of which the jumpy Nilean high
command twice made serious errors by
diverting ships that sprang their own traps
and thus added a pleasing note to the gen-
eral confusion.

By the fiftieth time-unit the Solarians had

PLANET STORIES

38

an imposing array of statistics to consider.
Fourteen ships destroyed by accident, in-
cluding one of their own. Eight hundred
fifty-one vessels nailed down to various in-
habitable planets and satellites. One thou-
sand two hundred sixty-six shiploads of the
mentally deceived hellbent for other places,
mostly home. Increasing evidence of de-
moralization in the battle headquarters of
both belligerents. Truly the long term
chivvying of weaker neutrals was being
paid for, heavily, with compound interest.
It might be sufficient to convince stubborn
minds that a myth can be a very real thing
when dragged out of the past and dumped
into the present day.

T HEY conferred among themselves and
across a galactic gap while their ships
continued to flash to and fro. If the oppos-
ing parties’ battle headquarters were taken
under mental control the entire war parade
could be scattered through the heavens at
a few imposed words of command. They
were reluctant to take matters as far as
that. It would come much too near a demon-
stration of near-godlike dictatorship over
all lesser creatures.

The basic Solarian idea was to create re-
spect for an essential law by creating re-
spect for those behind it. To overdo the
job by just a little too much would be to
establish wholesale fear of themselves
throughout the galaxy. Some dread here and
there could not be avoided when dealing
with less developed minds inclined to super-
stition, but they were deeply anxious not to
create ineradicable fear as a substitute for
enlightened tolerance. Since they were try-
ing to cope with two kinds of alien minds
not identically the same, it was a touchy
matter judging exactly how far they must
go in order to achieve the desired result
while avoiding the other. How many times
should a candidate for baptism be dunked
to give him salvation without pneumonia?

By mutual consent they carried on for
another time-unit, at the end of which the
movements of vessels still controlled by the
top brass showed that Nilean forces were
striving to regroup in readiness for with-
drawal. Their answer to that was to cease
*11 blows at Nileans and concentrate ex-
clusively on Markhamwit’s equally confused

but more mulish armada. Though slower to
make up their minds, the Great Lord’s com-
manders were swifter to act once they’d
reached a decision. In due time they saw
without difficulty that this was an inauspi-
cious date for victory and they’d do better
to bide next Friday week. Which means
that they started to pull out, fast.

“Enough!”

It flashed from mind to mind, and Law-
son said with approval, “Good work, boys. ”

“Our work invariably is first class,” as-
sured Nfam. Removing his toque, he blew
imaginary dust from it, smoothed its
feather, put it on at a rakish angle. "I have
earned myself a new bonnet.”

"Treat yourself to a new head while
you’re at it,” advised the thought-form of
Buzwuz from his haunt nearer the stern.

“Petty spitefulness characteristic of the
childlike,” commented Jlath, nodding his
fez until its crimson ribbon waggled. “I
have long been intrigued by a phenomenon
that someday must be investigated.”

“Such as?” prompted Nfam.

"The nearer they are to Sol, the higher
in intelligence. The farther out, the lower.”

Buzwuz shrilled back, "Let me tell you,
Spider-shape, that outside the Asteroid Belt
they’re — ”

"Shut up!” bellowed Lawson, thus stak-
ing a biped claim in this scramble for
superiority.

They went quiet, not because they were
overawed by him, not because they con-
sidered him any better or worse than them-
selves, but solely because it was notorious
that his two-legged kind could argue the
tail off an alligator and cast grave doubts
upon its parentage while doing so. If the
Solarian mass mind had a special compart-
ment reserved for flights of vocal fancy
duly embellished with pointed witticisms it
was without doubt located on a dump called
Terra.

So they held their peace while he boosted
the speed and headed for the gypsy planet
on which two ships already were waiting to
collect the various homarachnids and take
them nearer home. There was no need to
consult star maps and seek the highly erratic
course of the wandering sphere. He could
have chased it across half the galaxy and hit
it dead center with his eyes shut. All that

I

DESIGN FOR GREAT -DAY

was needed was to steer straight along the
thought-stream emanating from tire pair of
Solarian vessels waiting there.

It was as easy as that.

XI

T HE follow-up process was delayed. Held
back deliberately and of malice afore-
thought. The sluggish communications sys-
tems of warring life-forms had been greatly
to the advantage of Solarians, but now time
must be allowed for those same systems to
deliver data to Markhamwit and Glastrom.
No use Lawson and Reeder taking them the
news in person. They would not be be-
lieved until confirmation arrived in large
dollops.

And after the warlords had gained a clear
picture of recent events further time must
be given for the complete digestion therof.
Since the Nileans were by nature a little
more impulsive and a little less stubborn
than their opponents it was likely that they
would be the first to agree that it is un-
profitable to play hob with common property
such as the free space between worlds.

Markhamwit would be the last to give
in. He would have a soul-searing period of
balancing loss of face against the growing
pile of awkward facts. He must have time
to work out for himself that it is better to
drop an autocratic obsession than ul-
timately drop at the end of a rope. Being
what he was — a prominent member of his
own kind — he’d have no illusions about
tire fate of one who insists on leading his
people to total defeat.

A couple of days before the Nileans w'ere
due to become mentally ripe, Reeder burst
through the defense screen of their home
world, dropped a packet in Glastrom’s pal-
ace yard, whipped back into the eternal
starfield before guards or aerial patrols
fully realized what had taken place.

Ten time-units later — making carefully
estimated allowance for Markhamwit’s more
reluctant character — Lawson obliged with a
similar bundle that crowned the fat Kasine
as he waddled across the area outside the
interrogation center. The thump on that
worthy’s dome was not intentional. Nobody
could go by at such pace and achieve such
perfection of aim. It was wholly accidental.

but to the end of his days Kasifte would
never believe it.

Struggling to his feet, Kasine addressed
a few well-chosen words to tire sky, took
the bundle indoors, gave it to the captain
of the guard who gave it to the garrison
commander who gave it to the chief of in-
telligence. That official immediately recalled
the fate of a predecessor who hurriedly
burst open a parcel from someone who was
not a friend. So with the minimum of delay
he passed it to Minister Ganne who with
equal alacrity handed it to the addressee, the
Great Lord Markhamwit, and found an
excuse to get out of tire room.

Viewing tire unwanted gift with much
disfavor, Markhamwit found his plug and
tube, called tire chief of intelligence, ordered
him to provide an expendable warrior to
come lean out the window and open the
thing. The chief of intelligence told the
garrison commander who told the captain
of the guard who duly pushed along a
loyal thickhead of low rank and no im-
portance.

The task performed without dire result,
Markhamwit found himself with a thick
wad of star maps. Spreading them over
his desk he stared at them irefully. All bore
liberal markings, with certain worlds and
satellites clearly numbered. On the reverse
side of each was a list of ships stalled on
the appropriate spheres, plus roughly esti-
mated strength of crews thus marooned and
a further estimate of how long each group
could survive unaided.

The longer he studied this collection the
more riled he felt. Approximately one-fifth
of his total forces had been put out of ac-
tion according to this data. One-fifth of his
battle-wagons were scrap metal scattered far
across the light years. Assuming that it
would be asking for further trouble to em-
ploy armed vessels, it would require full
use of his gunless merchant-fleet to rescue
and bring home the crews languishing on a
couple of hundred worlds. And if he made
no attempt to save them there .would be
trouble aplenty on this world.

He did not. know it, but he had another
twenty time-units in which to think things
over.

At the end of that period Lawso®
returned.

PLANET STORIES

40

T HE second arrival was exactly like the
first. At one moment the plain stood
empty, with the city gray and grim in the
north, the bluish sun burning above and
the smallest of tire three moons going down
in the east. Next moment the ship was
there, a thin streak of dust settling behind
its tail as if to show that there had been
motion even though unseen.

Overhead the aerial patrol circled and
swirled as before. This time there was some
risk that they might bomb without waiting
for orders. A slick trick creates greater fury
when repeated and sometimes becomes too
much to bear.

"If a man does thee once it’s his fault; if
he does thee twice it’s thy fault!”

But again the Solarian visitor’s behavior
was that of one completely unconscious of
such dangers or completely indifferent to
them. It lay on the plain, a clear target. The
patrol dropped nothing but did scream the
news to the city’s chief communications
center.

Consequence was that a couple of truck-
loads of troops raced onto the plain even
as Lawson emerged from the lock. He
came out breathing deeply, enjoying the
fresh air, the feel of solid earth underfoot.
Several winged shapes buzzed ecstatically
out of the lock, zoomed into the sky, chased
after each other and put over a bee-version
of sailors in port.

Disregarding the oncomers from the city,
the bee-minds were swapping thoughts in-
tended mainly for the benefit of the biped.
They deplored his lack of wings. They
questioned the wisdom of Nature in putting
sentient life upon two inadequate feet. Ah,
the pity of it all!

Lawson took not the slightest notice of
this sympathy squirting down from the skies.
Among Solarian multikind there was no real
consciousness of shape in any serious sense.
Differences in form were referred to and
commented upon — always unfavorably —
only for purposes of kidding, which same
was everlasting and unmerciful. The
Solarian mass mind had a remarkable facility
for drawing odious comparisons within it-
self, for no useful purpose whatsoever. It
was done in much the same way that a well-
thatched biped would patronizingly refer
to the baldness of another biped for whom

he would fight to the bitter end.

There was indestructible oneness among
mutually sarcastic parts. This plus-quantity
in the multikind psyche had determined
the manner of Lawson’s first contact on this
world and equally determined the second.
He was acutely aware of the mentalities of
Markhamwit’s people but well-nigh blind
to their physical differences. The latter did
not matter. How could they matter? The
former counted a lot; it meant everything.

At some time in the far past Terrans,
Venusians, Callistrians, Martians, Rheans
and several others had merged into a greater
spiritual unity. At some time in the far
future the Solarians themselves would again
merge into a unity infinitely greater. Only
reason why the process had been confined to
the worlds of Sol was that all others out-
side had proved unripe for assimilation. All
others were comparative children with the
petty loyalties, the parochialisms, tire
jealousies, the spite, the emotional tantrums
and the unimaginative cruelness of children.

Someday the children would grow up.

Already, here and there, one or two al-
most were grown up.

Thus so far as Lawson and his crew were
concerned the truckloads making toward
them contained an armed company of men-
tal moppets of no particular shape or form.
And Markhamwit himself would have been
appalled to learn that his own status was
that of the muscular bully of grade one.

The trucks pulled up and the troops
tumbled out. Though Lawson did not know
it, his attitude and expression had been
perfectly duplicated in the dawn of history
by a gentleman named Casey who wore a
cap and badge. The corner cop watching the
kids come out of school. The lesson learned
was the same now as then, produced the
same results: the unruly members of this
crowd had had to be taught respect for
Casey.

They’d learned it all right; it was evident
from what they did next. There was no
hostile surrounding of the ship, guns loaded
and held ready. Instead they formed up in
two ranks, wide apart like a guard of
honor. A three-comet officer marched for-
ward, saluted ceremoniously.

"Sire, you have returned to see the Great
Lord?”

41

DESIGN FOR GREAT -DAY

"I have.” Lawson blinked, looked him
over. "Why the 'sire’? I do not have any
military rank.”

"You are the ship’s commander,” said the
other, signing toward the vessel.

"I am its pilot,” Lawson corrected. "No-
body commands it.”

"Somebody must have supreme authority
in a ship,” remarked the officer, a mite un-
certainly.

"Why?”

"One cannot have coordination without
it.”

”We can.”

"Yes, sire,” said the officer, determinedly
refusing to dispute the incredible.

"There you go again!” Lawson reproved.
He eyed the trucks. "Are you supposed to
take me to tire Great Lord?”

"Yes, sire.”

"On whose orders?”

“Minister Ganne’s,” informed the ocher.
"He also said I must leave a couple of
sentries to. guard your vessel.”

"Against whom?”

The officer screwed up his eyes, looked
bothered. "I’m sure I don’t know, sire. It is
the usual formality to provide a guard.”

"A thoughtful precaution,” commented
Lawson. “If this world is full of thieves
and scoundrels.”

Three Comets found himself in the posi-
tion of wanting to resist this unfortunate
suggestion without thereby denying the need
for an armed guard. But he couldn’t have
it both ways. So far as he could recall this
was the first time he’d had pointed out the
implication behind a customary arrange-
ment. There was no way of getting rid of the
one without automatically condemning the
other.

And destructive criticism of military
routine was unthinkable. He could lose his
bowels along with his comets for less than
that.

With a touch of desperation, he ended
the disconcerting talk by motioning toward
a truck. “This way, sire.”

Grinning to himself, Lawson climbed into
the cab, was driven citywards. He kept si-
lence during the journey. The officer did
likewise, inwardly feeling that this was one
of those days when one can be tempted to
say too much.

T HE Great Lord Markhamwit was sitting
in his chair with his four arms lying
negligently on its rests, his features smooth
and composed. Many days ago he had been
in a choleric frenzy of activity as he strove
to organize a war that refused to jell. A
few days back he’d been in a blind fury,
pacing the room, hammering the table, vol-
leying oaths and threats as a volcano spews
lava. A few time-units ago reaction had set
in as he contemplated an enormous mass of
frustrating data topped by the star maps
that had bounced off Kasine. Now he was
resigned, fatalistic. It was the calm after
the storm. He was nearly ripe for reason.

This was to be expected. Solarian tactics
did not accord paramount importance to the
question of what must be done to achieve a
given end. It was of equal and occasionally
of greater importance to determine precisely
when it must be begun, how long it must
be maintained and when it should be ended.
Words like hoiv or what did not dominate
a word like when in Solarian thinking.

Circumstances were radically altered when
Lawson ambled into the room for his third
interview. His manner was the same as be-
fore, but now Markhamwit and Ganne
studied him with wary curiosity rather than
bellicose irritation.

Seating himself, Lawson crossed his legs,
smiled at the Great Lord rather as one
would at an obstreperous child after a
domestic scene.

"Well?”

Markhamwit said slowly and evenly, “I
have been in direct touch with Glastrom.
We are recalling all ships.”

"That’s being sensible. More’s the pity
that it’s had to be paid for by many of
your crews languishing on lonely worlds.”
"We have agreed to cooperate in bringing
them home. The Nileans pick up and de-
liver any of our people they find. We do
the same for them.”

"Much nicer than cutting each other’s
throats, isn’t it?”

Markhamwit countered, "You told me
you didn’t care.” .

“Neither do we. It’s when innocent by-
standers get pushed around that we see
fit to chip in.”

Lawson made to get up as if at this stage
his task was finished because Solarian aims

4Z PLANET

had been gained. Nothing daunted, the
Great Lord spoke hurriedly.

"Before you go I’d like answers to three
questions.”

"What are they?”

"In honest fact do you come from a
galaxy other than this one?”

"Most certainly."

Frowning at a secret thought, Mark-
hamwit went on, "Have you sterilized any
world belonging to us or the Nileans?”

"Sterilized?” Lawson registered puzzle-
ment.

"As you are said to have done to the
Elmones.”

"Oh, that!” He dismissed it in the man-
ner of something never contemplated even
for a moment. "You’re referring to an inci-
dent of long, long ago. We used weapons in
those days. We have outgrown them now.
We harm nobody."

"I beg to differ." Markhamwit pointed
to the star maps piled up on one side. "On
your own showing eight of my ships have
been destroyed, crews and all.’ 4

"Plus five Nilean vessels and one of our
own,” Lawson said. "All by accidents over
which w'e had no control. For example, two
of your cruisers collided head-on. Our pres-
ence had nothing to do with it.”

Accepting this without dispute, Mark-
hamwit leaned forward, put his last ques-
tion. "You have established a law that free
space shall be completely free to all. We
have recognized it. We have given in. I
think that entitles us to know why you are
so interested in the space ethics of a galaxy
not your own.”

i

S TANDING up, Lawson met him eye
for eye. "Behind that query lurks the
agreement you have just made with Glas-
trom, namely, that you drop all your differ-
ences in die face of common peril from
outside. You have secretly agreed to con-
form to the common law until such time as
you have developed ships as good as or
better than our own. Then, when you feel
strong enough, you will join together and
shave us down to whatever you regard as
proper size.”

"That does not answer my question,”
Markhamwit pointed out, not bothering to
confirm or deny this accusation.

STORIES

"The answer is one you’ll fail to see.”
"Let me be the judge of that.”

"Well, it’s like this,” Lawson explained,
"Solarians are not a shape or form. They’re
a multikind destined ultimately to lose
identity in a combine still greater and wider.
They are the beginning of a growth of
associated minds designed to conquer uni-
versal matter. The free, unhampered use of
space is the basic essential of such growth."
"Why?”

"Because the next contributions to a
cosmos-wide supermind will come from this
galaxy. That’s where the laugh is on you.”
"On me?” The Great Lord was baffled.
"On your particular life-form. You over-
look the question of time. And time is all-
important.”

"What do you mean?”

"By the time either you or the Nileans
have created techniques advanced enough to
challenge us even remotely, both you and
they will be more than ready for assimila-
tion.”

“I don’t understand.”

Lawson went to the door. "Someday both
you and the Nileans will be inseparable
parts of each other and, like us, components
of a mightier whole. You will come to it
rathpr late but you’ll get there just the same.
Meanwhile we will not allow those in front
to be held back by those behind. Each comes
in his ow-n natural turn, delayed by no per-
nickety neighbors.”

He smiled. Then he departed.

"My lord, did you understand what he
meant?” Minister Ganne said.

"I have a glimmering.” Markhamwit was
thoughtful. “He was talking about events
not due until five, ten or twenty thousand
years after we two are dead.”

“How did he get to know our arrange-
ment with Glastrom?”

“He doesn’t know since nobody could
have told him. He made a shrewd guess,
and he was absolutely correct as we are
aware.” Markhamwit brooded a bit, added,
"It makes me wonder how close he'll get
with his longer shot.”

"Which one, my lord?”

"That by the time we’re big enough to
dare try beat up what he calls his multikind
it will be too late, for we shall then be part
of that multikind.”

DESIGN FOR GREAT -DAY

"I can’t imagine it,” admitted Ganne.

”1 can’t imagine people crossing an inter-
galactic chasm. Neither can Yielm or any of
our experts,” Markhamwit said. "I can’t
imagine anyone successfully waging a major
war without any weapons whatsoever.” His
tones became slightly peevish as he finished,
"And that supports the very one of his
points that I dislike the most: that our
brains are not yet adequate. We suffer from
limited imaginations.”

"Yes, my lord,” agreed Ganne.

"Speak for yourself,” snapped Markham-
wit. "I can stir up mine a bit even if others
can’t. I’m going to see Glastrom in person.
Maybe we can get together and, by persua-
sion rather than by force, so reorganize the
galaxy that it becomes too big and strong
and united to be absorbed by any menagerie
from elsewhere. It’s well worth a try.” He
stopped, stared at Ganne, demanded, "Why
do you look like a bilious skouniss?”

"You have reminded me of something
he said,” explained Ganne unhappily. "He
said, 'Someday both you and the Nileans
will be inseparable parts of each other and,
like us, components of a mightier whole.’
If you go to see Glastrom it means we’re
heading exactly that way — already!”

Markhamwit flopped back in his chair,
gnawed the nails on four hands in turn. He
hated to admit it but Ganne was right. The
only satisfactory method of trying to catch
up on Solarian competition was to toil along
the same cooperative path to -the same com-
munal end that could not and would not
remain compartmented in one galaxy. Not
to try was to accept defeat and sink into
dark obscurity that ultimately would cover
them for all time, making them like the
Elmones, a name, a memory, a rumor.

There were only two ways to go: forward
or backward.

Forward to the inevitable.

Or backward to the inevitable.

And it had to be forward.

L AWSON returned to the ship knowing
that his crew already were aboard and
eager to go. Getting out of the truck, he
thanked the driver, walked toward the lock,
stopped when nearby and carefully examined
the sentry posted outside it

43

"I think we have met before,” he offered
pleasantly.

Yadiz refused the bait. He kept tight hold
on his gun, ignored the voice, ignored a
couple of persistent itches. One learns by
experience he had decided, and when in
the presence of a Solarian the safest thing
is to play statues.

"Oh, well, if that’s the way you feel
about it.” Lawson shrugged, climbed into
the lock, looked down from the rim and
advised, "We’re taking off. There’ll be some
suction. If you don’t want a sudden rise in
the world you’d better take shelter behind
that rock.”

Thinking it over, Yadiz decided to take
the suggestion. He marched toward the
indicated point, still saying nothing. He
could have mentioned another sentry at the
ship’s opposite side, but he didn’t. To open,
one’s mouth is to get involved in difficulties.
To dose it is to let others get involved.

Lawson sat in the pilot’s seat, fingered
the little lever. Far out at the edge of the
galaxy, lost to view in the great spray of
stardust, were a pair of life-forms develop-
ing a kindred spirit. Near to them was a
third form, more numerous, arrogant and
ready to fill the power vacuum left by Glas-
trom and Markhamwit. Far out there among
the stars the stage was set for interference.
Something must be done about it. A few
knuckles must be rapped.

He moved the lever.

Crouching behind his rock Yadiz heard
a deep whoomp, clung desperately to his
cap and gun while dust and stones whirled
skyward. Then he stood up, watched the
anticipated -body fall almost at his feet. The
body struggled erect, dusted itself.

Yadiz said, "What were you doing up
there, Boonsnucker?”

"I was coming down,” informed that
worthy, sourly.

"So I noticed,” observed Yadiz, with
great disdain. "And now you are fifty yards
from your post.”

Bending, Boonsnucker picked up a
wooden stake that had thumped to earth
beside him, flourished it triumphantly and
said, “This time my post came with me!”

To which none but a Solarian could hav«
found a suitable answer.

THE IMAGINATIVE MAN

By BRYAN BERRY

Of the two survivors who crash-landed on Venus only Clarke, the
sensitive-winded one, could see those miraculous inhabitants . . .
those mythological weirdies, Gear-gaited Bainbridge, the fool »
was acting like a normal homo.

D OWN from the blackness of space,
through the grayness of the Venusian
sky, the rocket cut its path, speeding,
It fed on the sky, gobbling clouds and
spreading them out behind in a raw red
pencil of burning. And as it came down the
locket screamed and bellowed at the planet
ila anger and defiance. Then, perhaps be-
cause of someone’s carelessness, because of
some small fault that nobody had noticed,
because of a fragment of grit lodged in
some delicate mechanism, because of one of
& million possibilities — the sleek rocket
crashed.

There was silence on the planet Venus.
The rocket lay on its side on the moun-
tain slope like a stranded porpoise, buckled
' and broken.

Within the rocket a hand stretched out,
felt about, searching. There was blood on
the hand. Then, with a series of small
groans, the owner of the hand picked him-
self up, holding his head. He straightened
and looked at the mangled interior of the
rocket and at the four red, wet splotches
that had been members of the crew, their
heads like whipped cream and crushed
strawberries on the metal plates of the
rocket wall.

Behind him a voice said, "Oh, God,’*
feebly.

The first man turned, bent down and
pulled the figure out from beneath the tan-
gle of cables that had spilled out of the shat-
tered wall like metal spaghetti when the
crash had come.

“You’re all right, Clarke. Let me see that
hand.” Bandages and antiseptics flashed in
expert fingers. “There. Better?”

"Thanks.” Clarke sat up, looking about
him. When he saw the splotches he looked
44

away quickly, retching. "Just the two of us
left, then?” he asked.

" ’Fraid so,” said Bainbridge.

Clarke stood up. "Hey, that’s blood on
your fingers.”

"Just a small cut, nothing to worry over.
Come on, we’d better get outside.”

"The first men on Venus. Phew!” said
Clarke, looking at his bandaged hand.

“Not such a happy landing as it might
have been,” said Bainbridge. "Let’s hope
the second rocket doesn’t go the same way
— it’s due here shortly after us.”

Clarke pointed to the splotches. "What
are we going to do about them?”

“We’ll take them out and bury them
when we’ve had a good look round. Come
on, let’s find out what Venus is like.” Fie
walked unsteadily across the floor of the
rocket to the airlock.

The two men stepped out onto the rocky
mountainside. Behind them the rocket was a
black egg against the whiteness of the cliff,
and the sky was a pale gray sheet covering
it all. On the slope of the mountain there
were a lot of trees.

“Well, here we are,” said Clarke, breath-
ing deeply, "Venus.”

The silence of the planet made a wall
around the two men. There was neither
murmur of stream nor cry of bird, only
silence.

"Qdiet, isn’t it?” said Clarke.

Bainbridge smiled and nodded. “Did you
know you -were whispering?” he asked.

Clarke laughed, stirring his feet in the
rich black soil. "Was I? This place makes
you want to speak softly. Somehow it seems
wrong to do otherwise."

They looked around for a few minutes
more and then they started the task they

PLANET STORIES

46

dreaded — burying the bodies of their com-
panions.

W ITHIN an hour and twenty minutes
there were four wooden crosses in a
neat row beside the rocket, and there was
sweat on the two men’s brows.

"Poor old Markham. He wanted to reach
Venus more than any of us. His whole life
centered round it.” Clarke shook his head
sadly.

Bainbridge nodded. "Let’s get the tents
and make a camp here. We’re somewhere
in the Twilight Zone and it’s getting dark.
A good night’s sleep will do us good. We
can look round more thoroughly in the
morning.”

They set up die aluminium fabric tents
and made a small fire. Clarke managed to
get at the canned food supplies within the
rocket and they sat in the firelight eating
and drinking fine hot coffee.

The land was still all about them. There
was no sign of movement, no sound to tell
them that there might be any other form of
active life on the planet.

"I can’t help thinking that there must be
something here besides us,” said Clarke.
"This place is obviously capable of support-
ing life. The trees, for example, deciduous,
same as on Earth. If there’s anything in Par-
bright’s theory of parallel evolutionary
trends then it stands to reason that there
must be some form of animal life here.” He
took a long swallow of coffee, letting the
hot liquid settle on his tongue, tasting the
flavor appreciatively. "I wonder what they
will think of us,” he said, "when and if we
find them.”

Silence crept between the two men once
more. They finished their coffee and sat
watching the fire die down. Twenty min-
utes passed, perhaps more.

"You know,” started Clarke.

"What—?”

"I’ve got a feeling I was right about there
being life here on Venus. I’ve got the im-
pression that there’s something very close to
us right now.”

Bainbridge laughed. "Imagination,” he
said. "Weil have a good look round the
place in the morning. Right now I feel like
some sleep.” He walked over to the far tent.
"Good-night,” he said.

"Good-night,” replied Clarke, staring
across the dying fire at the deep and omi-
nous darkness.

He sat there for some time thinking. And
he let the stillness of Venus settle about him
like a web spun by a thousand black and
silent spiders. “What is it that Is watching
me?" he thought. "There is something
watching, I know.”

An hour went by. The fire died with a
final protesting spluttering.

Qarke started to shiver. It felt as though
a small cold hand was creeping about on the
back of his neck. It was the feeling he had
had when they had blasted off back on
Earth, and again over Venus when the
stabilizers had started acting up. It was fear.

He pulled a torch from his belt and
clicked it on.

The thing stood in the pool of light and
looked at Clarke. It had furry legs and its
face was small and brown and wizened.

Cloven hoofs clicked as it walked for-
ward.

"So you’ve reached us at last, have you?”
it said.

Clarke opened his mouth and then dosed
it. At last he said: "But you’re a faun.”

The faun nodded, brightly.

"But — ” started Clarke.

"But nothing,” said the faun. "I’m a faun
and that’s all there is to it Where are the
other men?”

"One’s sleeping, the others — ” Clarke
pointed to the crosses with his torch.

The faun nodded silently.

"But what are you?” Clarke exploded.
"You say you’re a faun, but that can’t be so.
For a start we’re on Venus, and secondly
there aren’t such things as fauns anyway.”
Clarke thought about what he had just said
and realized how stupid it sounded. Here he
was talking to something that looked as if it
had stepped out of a book on Greek mythol-
ogy, and telling it that it couldn’t exist. It
was too absurd.

"If I’m not a faun then what am I?”

"You’re — you’re a Venusian.”

“Correct. Hasn’t it struck you that the
Venusians might be fauns? Or centaurs,
even, or dragons, or griffins? All of those
things?”

"You mean all the things that men don’t
believe in?”

47

THE IMAGINATIVE MAN

“All the things that most men don’t be-
lieve in, yes.”

“Most men?”

“Well, you see me, so deep down you
must believe in me.”

"Nonsense, ridiculous,” said Clarke, too
loudly.

From the far tent came a sleep-filled
voice. "Calling me?”

F OR some reason Clarke did not want
Bainbridge to come out. "It’s all right,”
he called. "I went to sleep by the fire and
must have called out in my sleep.”

.-•No answer. Clarke waited for the other
man to come out of the tent but he did not
do so. Presumably he had gone back to
sleep.

"You were saying it was nonsense and
ridiculous, I think,” said the faun, sitting
down in the darkness near Clarke and stir-
ring the soil with cloven hoofs.

"I was, yes. And nonsense and ridiculous
it is, you talking to me like this. You aren’t
really there at all, or if you are then you are
a Venusian endowed with the power of al-
tering its atomic structure so as to appear as
something else. The only other explanation
is that you read my mind, found out what a
faun looks — is supposed to look like, and
then hypnotized me into seeing you as one.
You’re probably a fifty-tentacled monstros-
ity!”

"I am not,” said the faun, piqued. "I’m a
faun, simply that.”

"Well, I don’t believe it,” replied Clarke,
feeling at his belt for his blaster and then
stopping for a reason he could not quite un-
derstand. "Supposing you are a faun,” he
said after a pause, "how is it that we have
fauns recorded in our mythology back on
Earth? How is it that you’re here on Venus,
and what did you mean when you said 'So
you’ve reached us at last’? Answer those.”
The faun smiled an ancient Grecian
smile. "First: you have fauns in your my-
thology because we were all on Earth at
one time; fauns and centaurs, sirens and
nymphs and everything. Second : we’re here
on Venus because belief in us died out on
Earth and people couldn’t see us any more.
Third: we knew that man would eventually
conquer space with some sort of machine
and it was evident that he would reach us

one day. Does that answer you?”

Clarke put his head in his hands. "Un-
thinkable,” he said.

"Unbelievable, perhaps,” said the faun,
"but by no means unthinkable. You’re start-
ing to believe it, anyway. I can tell. You’re
one of the few men who can see us.”

Clarke looked up. "You said that no one
could see you nowadays, didn’t you? You
told me just now that that was the reason
you left Earth to come here.”

"Well, what I meant was that tire general
belief in our existence died out. There were
still some who saw us and believed; the
poets, artists, writers, musicians and so on.
The sensitive people saw us but not the
masses. You must be sensitive.”

Clarke propped the torch up on its tripod
legs so that the light fell on the faun. "You
haven’t convinced me yet,” he said. "How
did you reach Venus, anyway?”

The faun wagged a lean brown finger.
"Magic,” it said, "or what you would call
teleportation, you with your long and scien-
tific names for things.”

"Prove it,” said Clarke, sneering.

"Pardon?” said the faun from inside the
first aluminum tent.

Clark swiveled the torch on its tripod.
"How — ?” he started.

"Magic,” said the faun, "or teleportation;
whichever word you care to use.” Then the
faun stepped daintily out of the tent and
walked over to where Clarke was standing
with his mouth open. "Now do you be-
lieve?”

There was nothing Qarke could do but
nod.

"Good,” said the faun, disappearing.

Clarke stared at the space where the faun
had been. Then he picked up the torch and
flashed it here and there, this way and that,
feverishly.

But the faun had gone and there was
nothing but silence ana darkness about the
camp. Clarke turned the torch on the
ground. There were distinct marks of cloven
hoofprints in the soft soil. "Hypnosis, imag-
ination, dream or fact — which was it?”
wondered Clarke as he walked into his tent.

At dawn he was still awake, still think-
ing. Bainbridge’s voice roused him from
the depths of Greek mythology.

"You still asleep?"

48

PLANET

"No. Had a bad night. Dreams.’*

"Let’s have a wash and then look the
place over.”

Washing in a small rubber bowl Clarke
decided that he would not tell Bainbridge
anything about the faun. If the thing existed
then they were bound to come across it
again, or it them. If it had been illusion
then it would be better for Bainbridge to
remain in ignorance of the fact that he
shared the planet with a man who had hal-
lucinations.

"I slept like a top,” said Bainbridge, his
face toweled to the color of a bright red
apple. "Thought I heard you call out once.”

"Yes, I went to sleep by the fire and had
a dream.”

"Well,” said Bainbridge, buckling his
belt, "are we ready?”

T HEY set off into the trees that stretched
down the slope of tire mountain, and
after walking for a while Bainbridge said,

' You were right, this really i$ extraordi-
nary. The similarity of the vegetation. We
might be on Earth, almost. The trees are
bigger and the grass is thicker and so on,
but on the whole the scenery is very much
the same.”

"Uh-huh.”

"You’re not very talkative.”

"Tired out. Didn’t sleep much last
night,” said Clarke, yawning hugely. But
tiredness was not the only reason for his
silence. He was keeping his eyes open for
the faun, for he was becoming more and
more convinced that it had not been imagi-
nation or dreams. The hoofprints had been
there in the soil when he had been washing
earlier, but Bainbridge had not seen them.

They came out of the green silence of
the. trees into a glade that stretched for
about a hundred yards. Clarke stopped in
his tracks. "Did . you see that?” he asked,
softly.

"See what?”

"That,” said Clarke, pointing.

“I see nothing. Just trees and grass.

Why?”

The faun reappeared from behind a tree,
Ht’s-no good,” he said, "Your friend can’t
see me.”

Clarke’s face was a white sheet and his
eyes were black holes in it, staring. "Didn’t

STORIES

you hear anything or see anything?” he
asked Bainbridge, still staring at the faun.

"No. What are you talking about, any-
way?”

Clarke pointed at the faun again, raising
his arm slowly. "Can’t you see it over there
— standing beside that big tree?”

"See what? Have you lost your senses,
Clarke? Snap out of it.”

"What did I tell you?” called the faun.

Clarke took a deep breath. "Over there,”
he said, "is a faun. You can’t see it because
you’re not sensitive. I can see it and hear it.
I saw it last night, too. That was when you
thought you heard me calling to you. I was
talking to the faun. It told me that all the
mythological creatures really do exist — all
the fauns and nymphs and harpies and so
on. They left Earth for Venus when the
world started to change and people didn’t
believe in them any more and stopped see-
ing them.”

Bainbridge nodded. "Go on,” he said,
helpfully, his hand going down slowly to-
wards where. his blaster rested on his hip.

"It told me that since I was sensitive I
could see it. And — and I can see it. All the
creatures are teleports, apparently. That’s
how they came here to Venus. The faun
demonstrated teleportation to me last
night.”

Across the glade the faun gave a small
skipping dance about a tree and then sat
down to watch the two men, smiling a
small brown smile in its gnome-like face.

"Perhaps we’d better go back to the
rocket for a while, hey?” suggested Bain-
bridge.

"You think I’m crazy, don’t you?”

"Crazy? Oh, Good Lord, no, I wouldn’t
say that!” Bainbridge kept his hand on his
blaster and shook his head in astonishment
at the idea.

Then the faun materialized between the
two men.

Clarke watched it, fascinated. The faun
was smiling and it was then that Clarke saw
the first glow of evil in its eyes. Yes, it was
there all right, the age-old evil, a small and
brilliant sparkling deep within.

"I tell you what,” said Bainbridge.
"We’ll go bade to tire rocket and talk it
over there. The second rocket will be here
pretty soon and if there are any fauns about

49

THE IMAGINATIVE MAN

then that crew can take care of them, O.K.?”

"That faun is right here beside us now,
Bainbridge.”

"Yes, that’s right.”

"Bainbridge, keep your hand away from
that blaster!”

Bainbridge was a fraction too slow.
Clarke’s own blaster was out and leveled.
"Don’t try it, Bainbridge. Put your hands in
the air.”

"Now look here, Clarke . . .”

"In the air.”

"What are you going to do with him?”
queried the faun.

"I want you to lead us to where tire rest
of you live. Perhaps he’ll be sensitive to
some of the others, even though he doesn’t
seem to see you.”

Bainbridge gazed at the empty space
Clarke was addressing and his eyes rolled
like steel blue colored marbles in his head,
disbelieving. "You are crazy, Clarke,” he
said.

"Start walking,” snapped Clarke. "No,
not up there, that way!” he prodded Bain-
bridge with the blaster. "Remember, don’t
try any tricks.”

T HE faun skipped along in front with the
two men following behind. And they
wound their way through the forests of
Venus which were bigger, richer and more
luxuriant than those of Earth. They passed
great trees like mighty columns of elephant
hide, gray and wrinkled. And there were
flowers that were sudden bursts of fire and
blue frost, exploding in kaleidoscopes of
color and then withering even as the men
watched, tire petals drifting away in clouds
of sequins and snowflakes in the morning
air.

They walked through grasses that were
strong and soft and green; pulpy grasses
that were like the emerald tendrils of Ter-
restrial sea-anemones. And here and there
the men saw trees that were tall and white
and beautiful. And there were some trees
that Clarke looked at especially hard.

The hamadryad waved her arms at Clarke
and her voice floated like a soft kiss through
the leaves. "Hullo, man,” she said, laughing.
Clarke bit his lip and prodded Bainbridge.
"Did you see anything that time?” he
i — 'PLANET— -J anwary

asked. "Or hear anything?”

Bainbridge sneered. "What should I ha’se
seen, the giant Atlas?”

"No, a tree-nymph.”

In front of them the faun turned. "Most
of us live about here,” he said.

"Can you call them together?” queried
Clarke, still holding his blaster against Bain-
bridge’s back.

"Well, I can do,” said the faun. "But it
won’t do any good. He won’t see any of
them, I can tell you that now. He isn’t sensi-
tive the way you are. It was people like him
that drove us from Earth. The scientific-
minded ones, the machine men, the men
who turned their backs on the woods and
the creatures of the woods and wanted only
things they could get their hands on, red
things, realities. His sort of people.” A
brown finger stabbed at Bainbridge. "Now
you’re different,” the faun’s persuasive voice
went on. "You’re more like the old people.
You can see us and understand us. Look
over there for example.”

Clarke looked but kept the blaster steady.
A centaur stood in the shadow of a giant
tree, watching them. His four strong brown
horse’s legs were quivering and his fine back
tail swished to and fro.

"You can see him,” the faun went on.
"Men like your companion couldn’t see him
if they lived to be a thousand. They have
nothing in their souls at all. They simply
lust for power and material things. Like
the Huns and the Goths. No poetry. None.”
Clarke watched the forest and saw the
beings emerging, while the faun, worked
up by his own thoughts and words, glow-
ered at Bainbridge.

There was Pan, picking his way through
the trees, playing on his pipes a tune that
had in it all of youth and tire joys of youth
yet was as old as time itself. Here were
more tree-nymphs, half hidden in the trees
that formed their lives, their hair billowing
in shimmers of pale leaves about their
heads, their slim bodies melting into the
rich brown bark of the trees. Now came a
drumming of hoofs. More centaurs; their
glossy horses’ bodies rippling and glow-
ing. And then, coiling from the black pit of
its lair came the serpent that once had
guarded the golden apples of the Hesperides,
& monster of coils and convulsions, of scaled

PLANET STORIES

50

head and flashing, forking tongue, of se-
quin-studded lengths of threshing and heav-
ing serpentine strength.

Oh, they all came, then. The satyrs,
brown and ugly with a thousand evils and a
thousand lusts grinning in their sunken
eyes; the swift wet rising of water nymphs
from their silver pools; the shrieking and
whistling of monstrous wings as the harpies
and the furies weaved in and out amongst
the trees. And thus the wood became alive
with a thousand rustlings, a million stamp-
ings of cloven hoofs, an infinity of whispers
and of sighings.

C LARKE watched them and he saw the
menace in their faces, the menace and
the evil. This was their world and men were
enemies, invaders. Whether they were sensi-
tive or otherwise, whether they saw or did
not see, men were not wanted on Venus.
And Garke’s hand tightened on the blaster
as he watched Bainbridge, the faun and all
the myriad others.

“You see,” said the faun quickly, notic-
ing the change in Garke’s expression, "he
doesn’t see them. He’s one of the stolid
sort. You could stay here with us and we
would accept you. But him!” The faun spat.

Yes, thought Garke, the blaster loose in
his grasp now. Yes, you want me to kill
him, don’t you? You can’t touch him be-
cause you don't exist so far as he is con-
cerned. But you’re doing your best to influ-
ence me against him so that I kill him,
aren’t you? And then you’ll destroy me.

“All right, Bainbridge. You can put
down your hands. I had everything all
wrong. These creatures are trying to get rid
•f us both.”

Bainbridge turned round. Garke handed
him the blaster. "Yob take it,” he said.

Bainbridge took the blaster. Garke
watched the faun’s face changing, watched
the deep and terrible evil crawling over it.
“You were right, Bainbridge,” he said,
speaking quickly. “We’d better get back to
the rocket. They can’t touch you but they
can get me. We must try and get the radio
working and contact the second rocket, warn
them about the Venusians.”

Bainbridge nodded. “That’s right, old
man,” he said. “We’ll have to warn them.”
Then he pressed the trigger on the blaster.

There were tears in the eyes of William
Roderick Bainbridge as he put up the little
wooden cross beside the others. He straight-
ened up. Poor old Garke, he thought. Too
bad about him. But there had been nothing
else he could have done. He couldn’t have
kept him prisoner and he was too dangerous
to have loose when the second rocket came
down. He might have done anything. Any-
thing at all. But it was too bad just the
same.

He felt amazed at himself for having
been able to shoot him so calmly. But he
had done his duty. The spacecode laid down
rules for emergencies like that and he had
followed the rules, however unpleasant it
had been. Under normal circumstances, he
mused, Garke had been a decent enough
fellow. But that sudden madness showed
that he should never have been picked for
this business. Far too imaginative. Fauns
and tree-nymphs! Teleportation! Bainbridge
smiled a little sadly as he looked at tire fifth
cross.

Oh, well, better make some coffee.

And he walked towards the tent, step-
ping without a thought, without the slight-
est hesitation, through the body of one of
the fauns who squatted there glaring at him
with red and hate-filled eyes.

Steel-blue eyes brightened in the fierce metal face. Fingers that had
steel bones kept their hold . . . squeezing.

THE FINAL VENUSIAN

By BRYAN BERRY

That evening. That strange and fateful evening, robot John sat by
the fire as he had for one thousand, four hundred and twenty-eight
years, four months and three days ... but waiting now for nothing
in the whole world to happen. Nothing at all.

S ILENTLY, among the tall and luxuriant
trees, the city slept as it had slept for
the past thousand years and more upon
the planet Venus.

The white towers of the city pointed at
the graying sky like skeleton fingers rising
from the dead hands of the buildings.
Where smaller houses on the outskirts of
the city had nestled there were creeping
greeneries and exotic plants. Where great
canals had channeled across the land bear-
ing water to all the outposts of the Ter-
wstrial colony there were only the white

arms of broken concrete, broken and
scarred and crumbled where the trees had
pushed themselves up with a great strain-
ing and a great heaving, to break through
and gasp and rear upwards towards the sky
in exhilaration.

The city was a dead city, turning its
sightless, ancient eyes to gaze at the creeping
bushes and grasses that swarmed over its
limbs. And the rains that swept Venus
washed its bones and the winds of Venus
picked them clean through the long years.

This silent and misty afternoon there was

51

52 PLANET

not a movement to be seen throughout the
whole city, but on the outskirts, from a
small and crumbled building, came a plume
of smoke, rising and curling steadily up-
wards from a tall chimney.

Within the building the two sat at the
table as they always sat at this time of the
day, watching the fire burning in the ancient
grate as they had done through tire centuries
since Old Paul had sat with them doing that
very same thing. Their faces were without
wrinkle, without a line to tell of age or
illness or worry. Their lips were fine and
red and warm-looking, and their eyes the
palest blue steel. On their heads were bushy
shocks of hair that never grew long and
never needed cutting and never fell out.
And in the firelight, teeth that were rows
of tire finest pearls glistened without a spot
of yellow on them, without a mark of
decay.

"I wonder when he will come,” said
the first robot, Thomas.

"Perhaps this year, perhaps the next, per-
haps tire one after, but it will be one of the
three. He allowed a five year margin of er-
ror when he entered the Time Capsule.
Two of the years have already gone,” re-
plied the second robot, whose name was
John.

"It seems funny, doesn’t it, to sit here
knowing that we are going to see him
again after so long?”

"Yes.”

"Do you remember him as well as I do,
I wonder?”

"Of course I do. He made us both the
same, didn’t he? My memory is just the
same as yours."

"Do you remember his white hair and
his stoop? His hands yellowed with chemi-
cals?”

“Naturally I do.”

"And the way he kept on wearing that
old suit, despite the money he made with
his inventions?" Thomas went on.

"Of course.”

They were silent for a while, then. The
fire flickered in the room and gave off its
warmth to the two beings who had no need
of warmth.

No need at all.

"You know, the only things he never
tried to make money on were robots. He

STORIES

never made any after us, did he?” mused
John.

"No, that’s true. He didn’t. I remember
him talking about that, once, too. He said
that he didn’t mind making robots to be
used as servants or even friends but he
wasn’t going to make them for use as can-
non fodder. Do you remember him saying
that?”

"Of course I do. It was at nine o’clock on
the evening of July seventeenth, 1979. Am
I right?”

"You are,” said Thomas.

"And that’s what would have happened,
you know. If they had started making robots
like us on a large scale either here or on
Earth they would have been made to fight
in the war.”

Thomas nodded and poked the fire, stir-
ring up a spray of sparks. “Yes, men
wouldn’t have passed over an oppor-
tunity like that. The side with the robots
would have won any war at all. And that
was why Old Paul wouldn’t give in when
the government tried to make him co-
operate.”

John got up from the chair and walked
over to the wide window. "How long has
it been, Thomas? How long since he left in
the Time Capsule?”

"One thousand four hundred and twenty-
seven years, three months and eight days,”

John nodded slowly. "I often wonder
what happened to him, why he never came
back. "I’ve thought about it more and more
since the last colonists died out. We’re only
animate, thinking beings on Venus now,
you know. When Old Paul comes we must
stay with him all the time. We must never
let him out of our sight, for if we do and
something happens to him . .

"We should never forgive ourselves, and
we should be the losers.”

"Yes. It will be good to talk to him again
and remember the days when there were
men in the city and rockets in the sky.
Think of it We can have him here for the
rest of his life, for he never returned
through the Time Capsule. We can talk to
him just as we used to.”

Thomas got up and joined John at the
window. "And we must never let him stray
far from us in case something should hap-
pen to him,” he said.

THE FINAL VENUSIAN 53

The two robots looked out together at
the dead and skeletal city.

A BOUT a year passed; a year that was
to Thomas and John no more than the
blinking of an eyelid, for they had known
so much of time through the long and sil-
ent years.

Within the crumbled building a dock
chimed six. John and Thomas pushed back
the sheets that covered them and rose from
the two beds where they had been lying
for seven hours, imitating sleep. They
dressed and went downstairs.

"Raining,” said John, pulling back the
metal curtain and peering outside.

"John,” said Thomas, softly.

John turned. "What is it?”

Thomas pointed with a finger that looked
human but which, of course, was not. In
the middle of die room there was a glowing.
A blue glowing and a blue shimmering.
"It’s Paul, Old Paul,” said John.

The shimmering became a solid egg of
blue light, vibrating in the center of the
room.

The robots looked at each other happily.
"After all these years,” said Thomas.

"Yes. After all these years.”

They waited, their eyes eager.

Old Paul stepped out of the blue vibrat-
ir.g egg, his white hair just as they remem-
bered it, and his moustache, and — yes —
and his old suit with the bottom button
missing from the jacket. Just as he had
stepped into the lime Capsule on that
sunny morning one thousand four hundred
and twenty-eight years, four months and
two days before, so he stepped out of it.

"Paul, Old Paul,” from two metal
throats.

"Hullo, boys.”

’’Paul, you’re back. We waited so long."
"I didn’t think I should find you still
here, somehow.”

The robots laughed. "Oh, we’re still
here,” said John. "You made us to last, re-
member? We’re good for another thousand
years or so.”

The old man sat down in one of the
chairs and looked around the room. "You’ve
made some changes. None of my apparatus
left here.” His voice sounded sad.

Thomas and John shifted their feet. They

knew that the old man was thinking that
they might at least have kept some of it
there to remember him by.

"We didn’t destroy it, Paul,” said
Thomas.

"Then who did? Did I, after I went
back?”

"No, Paul, the Government came and
took it away. They thought you might have
been working on something that would
help in the war.”

A mass of wrinkles gathered themselves
into a scowl across Paul’s face. "And
didn’t I stop them? Or was it after I died?”

The robots looked at each other unde-
cidedly. Then John said: "You never came
back from the future, Paul.”

"I never came back? You mean I stayed
in the future and died there? Stayed and
died here? Now?”

Behind him the Time Capsule reduced
itself to a blue shimmering once more, then
a faintly luminous patch, then nothing at
all. It had gone, its purpose served.

"All we know is, Paul, that you never
returned. This is the first time we have
seen you since you first stepped into the
capsule.”

Paul shook his head, bewildered. "But
why? The duplicate capsule is still in the
vacuum vault below, where I erected it
before I went into the future, isn’t it? You
haven’t used it?”

"You never taught us how to use it. It
is still there.” I

"Then why did I not return? I could
have done. Besides, I wanted to.”

Silence in the room.

Old Paul closed his eyes. "So I never went
back,” he said. "I never finished my work
on dimensional ratios or — or anything.”
He was silent for a moment. Then he shook
himself and turned, his eyes open and
bright. "Well, boys, you’d better show me
Venus. It’ll be a lot different from the
Venus I knew.”

Quietly Thomas led the old man to the
window and drew back the metal curtain jo
that he could see just how different Venus

was.

Paul gazed out for a long and quiet min-
ute, his eyes misting and his breath coming
more heavily, pumping up from his aged
lungs. "It’s all like that?” he asked, bis

PLANET STORIES

54

face twisted slightly with the strain of
seeing things no other man had ever seen.

John nodded and spoke from behind
him. "Yes, Paul, it’s all like that now.”

Paul still stood at tire window, watching
the bright whiteness of shattered towers
that had become the playgrounds of green
and exotic creepers, watching the once
glorious roads cracked and splintered with
time. “How long?” he asked.

"Many, many centuries it has been like
that About ten years after you went into
the capsule a lot of the colonists were re-
called to Earth to fight a war. Some of them
revolted and were presented with a war
dust bomb for their trouble. Those that
managed to survive the bomb died off with-
out children. Since then the forest has
closed in.”

Paul shook his head. "All that trouble, all
that money and enthusiasm and energy to
get to Venus and they throw the planet
away like a rotten apple.” And there was
a great and terrible sadness in the old
man’s eyes as he let the metal drape fall
back.

T HAT night Paul raided the deep-freeze
food cached in the vaults below the
building and, afterwards, sat in the lounge
while Thomas and John busied themselves
preparing a meal for their maker, their lord,
their master, their friend.

And oh, what a meal it was!

There were plates loaded with lobster
salad with fresh green lettuce and prawns as
cold and succulent and crisp as curls of
pink ice. And there were long cool glasses
of beer and slices of white and tender
chicken breast; there were plates of warm
and crunchy rock cake freshly baked in an
oven that had not been used for a thousand
years. There were apples and oranges and
sweet ripe pears, and there were cheeses,
too, soaked in rich wine. The great table
groaned and protested and bowed under
the weight of the food that was spread out
upon a new and stiff white tablecloth, the
color of new snow that was laid on top of
ft.

His meal finished, Paul loosened his belt
and reached for a cigar, pierced the end
with a cocktail stick and lit up, sighing.
Thomas and John sat in the other two

chairs, cigars burning themselves away, un-
puffed at, between their teeth. This was
the moment that they had been waiting for
through the eternity of years. Yes, this
very moment when they could sit again by
the fire with Old Paul and speak of things
that happened so long ago.

“Do you remember that time when we
went to see the Government man and told
him that you were not interested in making
any more robots like us?” asked John.

Paul nodded, remembering clearly the oc-
casion that, for him, had happened only a
few years before. Smiling, he said: "Yes,
that certainly was amusing. He was quite
taken in when I introduced you as two
scientist friends. And then when we left
and you and Thomas opened your chests
so that he could see what you were — oh,
I thought he would die of fright!”

They laughed at the thought, remember-
ing. And they went on to speak of other
things, old things, things that happened in
the far, far past when the Venusian colony
had been a live thing and when there were
mighty rockets rushing in the gray skies,
burning the clouds with livid streams of
fire and bringing more and more men down
to the second planet. Ah, yes! the old days;
days lost, days gone, days buried.

At last Paul rose to go up to his bed-
room, saying good night to Thomas and
John from the stairs, leaving them sitting
beside the fire still.

"It was good to talk,” said Thomas at
length. "So good.”

John nodded. "Tomorrow we’ll take him
round the city and then in the evening
we’ll sit here again and talk.”

Thomas looked across, quickly. "I was
going to suggest that we take him to the
city in the evening and spend the day look-
ing over the old spaceport.”

John’s plastic and rubber and silk face
twisted ever so slightly into a frown. "I
think it would be far better if we took him
to the city in the daylight. Then we can
spend the evening here, talking as we did
tonight.”

There will be plenty of other evenings
when we can sit here talking,” said Thomas,
standing up, "Why not take him to the
city tomorrow evening?”

"Just that I think he’d prefer to see it

THE FINAL VENUSIAN 55

in daylight, that’s all. There’s no need to
get cross. If he wants to see the city during
the day, then we can take him there the
day after tomorrow.”

Thomas and John looked at each other
across tire room, steel wire nerves jump-
ing within them, coils coiling in their
metal skulls, lubricating oil stirring and
whirling in glass and plastic tubes deep
within. Their bodies were hot beneath their
clothes and there came a slight humming
from tubes unaccustomed to warmth and
anger.

"I think,” said Thomas, "that we had
better go to bed. We can discuss this further
in the morning.”

P AUL was wakened in the morning by
Thomas holding a cup of hot tea,
and by John holding a plate of grapefruit.

"Thank you, boys,” he said, puzzled at
the heat that was coming from them.
"You’d better' let me take a look at you
after breakfast, you’re cooking up much
more than you should. What’s the matter?”
No answer.

"H’mmm. Well, let me just eat this
grapefruit, then I’ll come down and look
you over. That heat is noticeable from here.
You’ll be scorching your clothes.”

The robots left.

Old Paul sipped his tea and his eyes were
troubled. He had caught snatches of their
conversation late the previous evening, and
what with that and the heat of their bodies
this morning. ... He sighed. So they were
not perfect; more than that they were imi-
tative. They had once lived among men and
the influence had extended over a thousand
years. Anger was a thing that he had never
instilled into them at the beginning. Jealousy
and possessiveness, too, should have been
alien to them. But contact with men in those
early years must have provided what he
himself had not. The ways of men, the
old man thought, oh, the ways of men!

He dressed and went downstairs.
"Thomas, John,” he called.

They came into the room.

’’Fetch the case of tools from the vault.

I see all the others have gone. I want to
have a look at you.”

The robots went out and returned, later,
with a heavy case.

‘ You first, Thomas. Take off your jacket
and shirt.”

Old Paul opened the case, taking out
pincers, forceps, files, oil cans, scalpels, fine
wires, glass tubes, plastic and rubber coils.
"I’m going to put you out for a while,” he
said. "Then I can have a better look at
you.” He opened Thomas’s chest and
switched this, clicked that. There came s
faint whirring and sighing, a hissing of
expelled gasses as pressures were reduced,
as liquids ceased to pump.

Thomas was a dead and silent tiring sit-
ting in a chair.

"Why did you never tell us how to da
that for ourselves, Paul?” asked John.

"Because when I made you I had faith k
the human race. I thought that you would
be useful to man after I was dead and gone.

I was the only person who knew how t®
inanimate you. If you were to try it, even
after seeing me do it just now, you would
fail. Why do you ask?”

"The years have been very long, Paul.
Sometimes, sitting here, we talked of the
old days when men who did not w r ant to live
destroyed themselves, men who had nothing
left to live for.”

The old man’s nimble fingers joined
wires, substituted tubes, rearranged tiny
fibres, scraped with a scalpel, swiftly.
"Have either of you ever tried to disconnect
yourselves?” he asked.

"Never. We have always had something
left to live for. We knew that you would
come here eventually.”

The old man smiled. "It means that mudi
to you, does it, my returning?”

"We have had little else to think about
for over a thousand years. And now fear*
you are.”

"Yes, here I am.” The fingers were busy
still with wires and tubes. "Yes, here I sm
again. And you each want me for your-
selves, don’t you?”

"I suppose we do.” Y
"You know you do. Before, you were
prepared to share me with each other. Safe
now it is different. I am too precious a pos-
session, am I not? You each resent the fad
that I am not your own personal property.
What I am doing to Thomas now will re-
move that resentment. Afterwards I shall dta
ia§ same to you. I overheard part of yaw

PLANET STORIES

56

conversation last night, and your body heat
this morning warned me of what was hap-
pening. But it shouldn’t take long to put
you right."

J OHN laid a hand on the old man’s
shoulder. "Paul,” he said, "Paul, we
could get on very well together — alone.”
Paul’s hands came away from Thomas’s
chest. Slowly he put the scalpel down on the
table beside him, together with the twists of
nerve wire on which he had been working.
The room was quiet with the silence that
held the two figures. "The years have
changed you, John,” said the old man,
"changed you as I never thought they
could.”

John’s steel eyes were glowing brightly,
his fingers twitched on the old man’s shoul-
der. "I’m serious, Paul. We could spend
the rest of our — of your life here on Venus
together — and we would never be lonely,
the two of us.”

Paul straightened up. "Sit down, John”
he said heavily. "I'm going to start on you
now. You seem to need it more than
Thomas.”

John sat down and then stood up again,
his face a spider’s web of tiny cracks where
the internal heat was working on him.
Within his metal skull nerve wires rose to
maximum temperature and bulbs flashed
redly, recording themselves on strips of mic-
rofilm winding and curling on miniature
spools. But the spools slowed and the warn-
ings did not shoot out to each limb, each
part of the metal complexity that was John.
Instead the wires rose higher in tempera-
ture. Three microscopic valves blew them-
selves to glass dust within the brain case.

John shot out both hands, gripping
Paul’s shoulders. "Let’s stay together,” he
said. "We can forget all about Thomas. We
don’t need him.”

“Take your hands off my shoulders.”
"No.”

"Don’t be a fool, John. Sit down. You’re
cooking yourself to a cinder inside there.
And take your hands off me!”

Steel blue eyes brightened in the fiercely
working face. Fingers that had steel bones
kept their hold, squeezing. "No, no, no,
no, no, no! You’re mine, mine. You shan’t

belong to us, but to me! We ll forget
Thomas and everything. We’ll go out some-
where else and build a new house and start
a new life, and in the evenings we can sit
beside the fire like we used to do, and we
can talk of the old days and watch the
fire die down. We have no need of Thomas.
Let him stay where he is— dead.”

The old man coughed twice and pawed
at the steel fingers, quite futilely, "John,
John!”

Slowly the brightness died away to a
glimmer in John’s eyes. The heat subsided
in the nerve wires, the liquids gurgled to
themselves and returned to normal levels in
their small and secret tubes, the twitching
of metal coil muscles diminished. The
fingers opened, then.

Old Paul fell in a crumpled curve on the
floor of the building. At tire chair beside
his fallen body Thomas sat with his
chest bared and a trickle of nerve wires
cascading from the circular hole there.

John looked at his fingers, then at
Paul.

"Paul, Paul,” he cried, bending. I didn’t
mean to hurt you, Paul. I didn’t mean to do
anything. Stand up, Paul. Get up, Paul. Oh,
Paul, Paul!”

Desperation made a shaking within him,
deep down. He pulled the old man upright
and carried him to the table. He stripped
off his clothes and rubbed his limbs. He
went down to the vault and brought up
oxygen cylinders and a pump, and for
three hours he worked on the old, brittle
body that was growing steadily colder. It
was no good.

After that he tried to put Thomas to-
gether again, fitting nerve wires into place,
examining this part, adjusting that. Thomas
sat like a metal and plastic, glass and silk,
rubber and fibre dead thing, as indeed he
was.

John buried the two bodies on the edge
of the dead and silent city, among the
trees.

And that same evening he sat by the
fire as he had sat for one thousand, four
hundred and twenty-eight years, four
months and three days; but waiting now for
nothing in the whole world to happen.
Nothing at all.

Ok. to be out there, thought Larry. Out there, way up m space where there would be no one to nag.

GROUNDLING

By BRYAN BERRY

With immense ease Larry could call up scenes of the depths and
vastness of space , and the rockets darting like silver humming birds
through the eternal dark. For Larry was a groundling ... a hen-
pecked groundling with a daring plan.

arp HE way you leave ash about on
| the carpet, Larry, really!”

JL He sighed and turned, the page
of his book, not looking up.

"Anyone would think the autodeanes
does everything, the way you go on, Don's
forget I have to work the thing.”

He raised his eyes, then, keeping hts fm~

$9

PLANET STORIES

58

gers in his book. "I’m sorry,” he said,
simply.

She sat opposite him in the soft cloud-
rubber chair, rocking gently back and forth
within its soothing pulsations. She was big-
ger than he was; bigger, fatter, sterner,
stronger.

She scowled again. "I think you make
more work for me on purpose.”

He knew quite well that it would be no
use denying it. Through the years since
their marriage in 1989 he had come to learn
how useless it was to deny any of her ac-
cusations.

A rocket roared up from the spaceport
beyond the house, but all he heard was a
gentle humming; that was all that the sound-
proofed walls let through. Once he had been
able to hear the bellow and the churning of
the great silver vessels roaring off for
Mars or Venus. Then she had said that
the noise disturbed her and had made him
have the soundproofing installed.

He pressed the stub of his cigarette into
the ash tray and watched the metal arm
jerk the tray to the wall, disappear through
the tiny hatch and return the tray, empty,
clean, polished.

There was another gentle humming as a
second rocket passed over. He stretched out
his legs and gazed up at the crystal window,
watching the blazing trail of red and green
fire burning its way through the midnight
blackness. Oh, to be out there! Oh, to be
through with all this and to be away out in
space where there was no one to nag, no one
to worry you, no one to tell you not to drop
ash on the carpet.

Her harsh voice cut in, severing the
dream.

"Do you know you’ve done nothing
all evening except read that stupid book on
space travel and look out of the window
and sigh? I should have thought you were
old enough to have got over all those crazy
ideas about being a spaceman.”

He looked at her without really seeing
her, and started to light another cigarette.

Her eyes grew cold as she watched him,
the pupils sharpening to needle points as
she glared at his hands fumbling with
the packet. "Remember what Dr. Allison
said — too many cigarettes are bad for your
lungs.”

A S HE was employed on the ground staff
at the spaceport he was allowed into
the Rameses bar. At one time it had been
reserved for spacemen only, but the rule
had been ignored by almost all of the
ground staff anyway, so in the end they
decided that they might as well let them in
officially.

He sat in his favorite seat in the corner
with a glass of beer in front of him. He
was waiting for the crew to come in from
Mars as they always did, once every month.
He knew the exact moment they would
land, every time, and always he came to the
Rameses to listen to their tales and drink
with them. And always, too, he felt the same
excitement, the same tenseness before they
came in with their gold braid and their fine
blue uniforms. How strong they looked!
How clean and straight and purposeful! He
sipped his beer reflectively and thought back
to the last time he had talked to them.
What wonderful stories they had had to
tell.

The door banged open and in they all
came.

There was Peters and Ericson and Mal-
lard and all of them. All tanned with
spaceburn, all walking with the strange and
careful tread that every spaceman got after
dealing with odd gravities and no gravity at
all.

Peters waved to him. "Hey there, Larry.”
He raised his hand acknowledging the
greeting.

"What are you drinking? Beer? Fine,”
Peters ordered beer for them all and they
gathered round the table. Some of them
looked at Larry with something like pity in
their eyes; and perhaps a little contempt,
too. Here was a man, their eyes said, who
had never been outside this one little world;
here was one who had never been up into
space or experienced the strange and beauti-
ful weightlessness, never seen the red Mar-
tian deserts, never seen the stars hanging
like portholes in the velvet midnights with-
out the twinkling of atmosphere. Here was
a groundling.

"Where did you go this trip?” Larry
asked, eagerly. He knew, of course. He
asked only to make them start at the begin-
ning, force them by his questions to describe
everything so that he might savor it down

GROUNDLING 59

to the last tiny detail, feed on it as you
would feed on a five course meal, washing
it down with the rare red wine of the
spaceman’s jargon.

So he sat there quietly, did Larry, listen-
ing to the harsh and crackling voices of
Peters and Ericson and the others. Their
words were conjurations and invocations,
summoning visions of red Mars and green
Venus, calling up scenes of the depths and
the vastnesses of space and the rockets like
silver humming birds darting in the eternal
dark.

Peters was speaking. "That’s the third
trip to Mars we’ve made in succession. Not
that I don’t like Mars, mind. I do. It’s
just that I’d rather be off on one of these
experimental flights. I hear that they’re
going to try sending a ship to Mercury soon,
I want to be on that.”

Larry looked up, turning his glass in his
fingers. "Mercury?"

"Uh-huh.”

"What about the heat?”

”1 imagine they’ll dish out asbestoleum
suits and land in the Twilight Belt. It should
be a wonderful experience.”

Larry looked away quickly. Despite the
fact that he would not miss these meetings
for the world he always felt saddened when
he heard the men speak of their next
trip.

The evening wore on. He had told his
wife that he would be working late inter-
viewing the crew. He told her this each
month and, probably because he said the
same thing so regularly, she believed him.

At last the rocket crew got up to leave,
all except Peters. Goodbyes were said,
leather belts strapped on again. Glasses
drained and peaked caps set on at jaunty
angles.

The door banged after the last
of them.

Peters turned to Larry. "Well, old man,
how goes it?”

How many times has he asked that ques-
tion, before, thought Larry? And how many
times have I had to give the same answer?

"The same as ever,” he said.

"She still goes for you, then?”

"She still goes for me.”

Peters chuckled a quiet chuckle to him-
self, the sound coming softly above the

hum of conversation, above the clink of
glasses in the bar.

Larry looked up. "Did you hear that
they’re trying to relax the law against mar-
ried men taking jobs on the rockets?”
"No!”

"Uh-huh. There’s a bill going through at
the moment.”

"Well, well, well, I wouldn’t have
thought they’d do it.”

Larry scowled. "Why not? What’s wrong
with the idea? They didn’t try and stop
married men flying in ’planes, did they?
Why stop them going on the rockets?”
Peters looked at him soberly. "Because,
©Id man. Just because.”

"Because what, though?”

"Because rockets are still new. Space is
still new. The planets are still new. We’re
playing at rocketeering, Larry. While we’re
playing there’s no room for anyone with
responsibilities.”

"You sound like a text book.”

"Perhaps I do. It’s true nevertheless.”
"So you say.”

"It is true.”

Outside the roar of the rockets; bellow-
ing, triumphant in the night. The rockets
screaming off into the skies, causing heads
to turn upwards; causing people to shud-
der in their sleep, dreaming; causing small
boys, watching from their bedroom win-
dows to gasp and clutch at the metal win-
dow ledges tightly, oh, tightly! Always the
harsh and majestic tearing sound of the
silver ships blasting off and landing to rip
the night into a million glittering frag-
ments and cast it up toward the far stars.
"Well, I must be going.”

"Yes.”

"You’re lucky. You can sleep where you
want to.”

Peters laughed hollowly. "The novelty
palls after a time. Sometimes I wish I had a
wife,”

They got up and paid for their drinks.
"You’ve got all space for a wife,” said
Larry at they went out.

A S HE walked from the railcar towards
his house the guide lights along the
path extinguished themselves behind him
with his footsteps. In the porch he whis-
pered his name at the lock and the door

PLANET STORIES

60

moved aside. He went in.

The house was still. As it should be, he
thought. When she knew where he was
she didn’t wait up. His feet made no sound
on the rubber stairs.

In the bedroom, he undressed in the dark
and got into bed. The sheets, like a million
tiny furry hands caressed him, stroked him,
soothing his body, lulling him gently to-
wards sleep.

The voice came from beside him. "You
smell of beer.”

"I just had one with the boys.”

"That’s a lie. I ’visored the spaceport.
They told me you came off at six. You’ve
been drinking all this time.”

"There was a gang in from Mars. I have
to talk to them when they get in. It’s the
same every month.”

"I don’t believe you. You just use that as
an excuse to go drinking.”

He lay there with his eyes closed, not
thinking about her at all. He felt a move-
ment as she sat up in bed. He knew that
she was looking at him in the darkness.

"You won’t pull that one on me again,
Mr. Larry Miller. Oh, no!” she said.

The sheets stroked him gently, persua-
sively, deftly, lovingly, bidding him sleep.

He slept.

It was four days afterwards that he
thought of killing his wife. The night he
went out to get drunk after hearing that
the bill relaxing the law on married men tak-
ing spacemen’s jobs had been thrown out.

The next morning he remembered very
little about his orgy except the fact that
he had been planning to murder his wife.

At the spaceport all that day he was
picking up pencils, putting them down
again, toying with india rubbers, paper
clips, autowriters, thinking all the time:
How could I have thought of such a thing?
How could I? I may get fed up with Hilda
but I don’t want to kill her.

On the way home the thought of killing
her was not so unpleasant. After all, he had
often thought of how wonderful it would be
to be rid of her eternal nagging. Supposing
he admitted that he did, in fact, want to
kill her, how would he go about it? What
method would he adopt?

He was still brooding over it when he
reached his house.

"You were in a disgusting state last
night,” she greeted him. “I wonder you had
the nerve to come home at all.”

"It’s my house. I bought it, didn’t I?”

"Don’t you speak to me like that, Mr.
Larry Miller.”

Yes, he thought. Yes, I suppose I do
want to kill her.

He planned it that night in his foam bath.
He knew, even as he planned it, that he
would be successful. It would not be easy,
of course. No, there would be plenty of
danger attached, plenty of it. But the more
he thought about it the more certain he be-
came that he would get away with it.

The following Saturday he took his wife,
as always, into town in the beetlecar. In the
largest and most expensive store she bought
three new dresses and two hats and then
they started back, taking the circular road
home as they always did on Saturday morn-
ings.

From quite a ways away Larry could see
the traffic beams changing to "Go” on the
main bridge over the river. Tlie road was
as clear and white as an opened roll of
bandages. He drove along at moderate speed,
waving to the policeman in the control box
the way he always did.

Tire indicator changed to "Stop.”

"Brakes!” shouted Larry Miller’s wife.

Simulating agony in his voice Larry
shouted: "My God! I can’t!”

The car swerved, broke the railings and
plunged fifty feet down into the river, strik-
ing the water even as Larry got his door
open.

There was a commotion on the river bank,
a shouting and a clanging of ambulance
bells, the furious sound of police whistles
scouring the cool, fine, morning air.

A police launch picked Larry up and men:
knelt on him, pumping water out of him..
"My wife,” he said, feebly. "My wife.”

When they fished the car out they found
that Hilda Miller was, understandably,
dead.

Everyone was very sympathetic about it
Larry was taken to a hospital where he lay
in white and antiseptic luxury while report-
ers, a policeman and an insurance agent
spoke to him.

"It was the brakes all right,” said tibe
policeman. "Beats me how you ever got as

GROUNDLING

far as you did without something happen-
ing!”

Larry smiled to himself, secretly. The
job he’d had fixing those brakes!

O N SUNDAY he went back home, walk-
ing, savoring the air.

The plaque had already been delivered
when he reached the house. It sat in the
mail box, glowing. He picked it up and
looked at it, smiling a little. IN LOVING
MEMORY OF HILDA, it said, phos-
phorescently. Below the words there was a
three dimensional image of her let into the
metal. On the tag he read: WITH THE
COMPLIMENTS OF FIRETRAPS, INC.
How strange it must have been in the old
days, he thought, when they buried their
dead instead of putting them in the Fire-
traps. How strange to have put them under
the earth instead of burning them. How
odd, too, to have made a ceremony of death,
reading words over a body that was dead and
was obviously not interested in anything
any more.

Inside the house it was still. He walked
through each room and slowly, slowly, with
each step he took, the feeling of freedom
deepened.

In the lounge he looked round and de-
liberately flicked ash on the carpet

He walked to the wall cabinet and pressed
two buttons. A shelf emerged bearing a
large gin and a small bottle of tonic water.
She used to say that she liked a drop of
gin once in a while. But, of course, it
wasn’t good for him. He drained the glass,
pressed the button for another and slumped
into a chair to watch the teleshow, think-
ing again and again how good, how fine it
was to be free.

That night he tore down the soundproof
screens and opened one of the great crystal
windows in his bedroom to let the sounds
of the night come in. There were the
rockets! Tire roaring whoosh as they took
off, then the silver of fire burning upwards,
upwards. And the stars far away, twinkling
luce demons’ eyes in the cold blade sea of
space.

"At last I can go,” he thought. "I can go
on the rockets now. I’m not married any
longer. I can get a spaceman’s job and go

61

off with Peters and Ericson and die others.’
He sighed a deep, soft, contented sigh
as he stared out.

The roar of a rocket filled the room

Y OU have to have tough nerves and tough
lungs to get a job on the rockets. He
had neither, they told him at the medical.
Oh, they were all so sorry about it. The;,
knew that he had always yearned to be a
spaceman. They knew, too, that he was
tired of his desk job.

"But there it is, old man. I’m not saying
you’re ill, mind you. Far from it. It’s just
diat you’re not fit enough for space. You’d
crack up within a month.”

There were a lot of helpful smiles ana
pats on the back. A lot of kind and helpful
men saying kind and helpful things to him
The manager of his office took him aside
and told him that while they appreciated his
eagerness to go out into space they con-
sidered that he was worth more to them all
there in his office.

He spent the evening at the Raineses,
talking to the barman.

"So they turned you down, eh?”

"Yes, they turned me down,” said Larry,
taking a deep pull on his cigarette.

"Too bad.”

"They said I wouldn’t be tough enough
for space.”

"They certainly need tough men all
right.”

“Said my lungs weren’t tough enough;
my nerves, too.”

"My!”

"Told me I was more use on the ground
staff.”

“Maybe they’re right.”

"Huh?”

"Well, you can’t tell.”

"No, you can’t ever tell, can you?” said
Larry, slowly.

"By the way,” said the barman, polish-
ing a glass, "I heard about your wife to-
day. Chap in the checking office told me
about it all. Too bad.”

"Yes,” said Larry tiredly, "Too bad.”
Overhead a rocket roared. Larry held his
cigarette at arms length and gently patted
it so that the ashes would fall unerringly
into the receptacle below.

War Drums of Mercury Lost

By JOHN W. JAKES

Blackthos, Lord of Mercury's Dorgas, spoke the words: “We can
make even the dead march against you." Only then did the
stranger from Earth know that the wicked curse of New Dublin —
from the mouth of an ancient crone — was ready to be fulfilled.

T HEY were riding along a high rocky
ridge. Here the wind blew, strong and
with a faint trace of coolness, but it
could not entirely dispel the scorching heat
of the mid-day sun burning like a bloated
red eye from the pale blue heavens of the
Mercurial heat belt.

Their horses picked a leisurely path
around the scattered boulders. Above them,
sharp slopes rose to the mountains standing
naked in the wind. Below, the hillside
dropped away to the floor of the great cir-
cular Valley of Nomoon.

Abruptly, one of the riders pulled his
mount to a stop. He sat quietly, pulling at
the wide loop of gold dangling from his
left ear. The wind riffled his flame-scarlet
hair, and his long jade eyes swept the
valley floor.

There lay the city of Nomoon, a pile of
yellow towering stone. The streets were
cloaked in dim shadows, and empty. Beyond
the city were large buildings made entirely
of pale blue glass. Within them, tiny dots
of men could be seen hurrying, tending
waving frond-like things.

That is my home, thought Tol Shannon,
running browned fingers around the loop
of gold. That is my home, or is it, really?
Six months. I want this to be my home, but
1 am an Earthman. Outlander. Will they
ever accept me as one of them? They
haven’t, yet. But why?

There had to be some answer. Shannon
turned to where the second rider sat atop
his horse. He was a native of Mercury, with
traditional pale blue skin, an almost tri-
angular head, and faint wisps of blue hair
.lying straight back on his blue skull. Hardly
more than a boy, he was nevertheless a
noble personage among the people of the

valley: Kersten XI Borne, son and heir to
old Kersten, ruler of Nomoon.

Shannon pulled a cigarette, offering one
to XI Borne. The young man shook his
head. Lighting his, Shannon inhaled deeply
and then spoke.

"Borne, it’s been nearly six months since
I wandered into Nomoon, just another star
drifter. The Shannons have never stayed in
any one place a great length of time. But
I want to settle here. You know that, I
think. The valley is peaceful. There is no
endless fight for existence. I want to stay in
Nomoon. But I wonder if I can.”

Borne laughed and rubbed his horse’s
neck. "Tol, that’s nonsense. What keeps you
from staying?”

“I’m a stranger,” Shannon replied. "The
people are cordial enough. But I’m still a
foreigner to them. They distrust foreigners,
naturally enough. I want- to remove that
distrust. What can I do?”

Borne shrugged. "No more than you are
already doing by helping us to improve our
source of food.” He waved a hand at the
blue glass buildings winking in the sun far
below. The buildings housed vast hydro-
ponic gardens, and since Shannon had come
to Nomoon he had helped the people better
their crops.

Now Shannon exhaled loudly, throwing
his cigarette to the earth. "All right,” he
said.

Borne slapped him on the shoulder. “For
Sol’s sake don’t be quite so mournful. You’11
get along all right. But I would advise
one thing. Find a woman. Mate. That will
remove distrust rapidly.”

”1 can’t,” Shannon said.

Borne frowned. ’’Why? Are the women
of Nomoon distasteful to you?”

mm

£9

PLANET STORIES

$4

Shannon shook his head hastily. “It isn’t
that. It’s something very strange. Borne.
When I came into die system, back at New
Dublin on Mars, my mother’s widwife was
an old Martian witch. My mother told me
years later that the old woman had mur-
mured something at the moment of my
birth, something that caught my mother’s
attention even through the pain of child-
bearing. For some reason, she uttered . . .
well ... a curse."

"Oh,” Borne replied softly. The people
of Nomoon were by tradition superstitious.
What little technology they had reached
back to obscure beginnings. It was a matter
of custom, of form. Certain things had been
done in ages dead, were being done, and
would be done in the distant tomorrows.
There was no understanding of any but die
most simple scientific principles, and even
those were regarded in a half-light of dim
and ancient magic

"What was . . . the curse, Tol?” Borne
asked, trying to gaze at the sky where die
sun flamed fire.

Like something from a dream. Shannon
remembered the words and spoke diem
aloud:

"When a woman holds the webs of stars
between her hands, and die living dead are
marching from the grave, then shall the
house of Shannon fall forever into death.”
He paused a moment, then went on, "I
don’t generally believe in such things. But
curses have been very prevalent in our
family, and diey’ve always worked out. I’m
the last Shannon. The curse can only apply
to me.”

B ORNE laughed again but it was forced.

"Well, I don’t possibly see how dead
men could march in Nomoon. And as for
women holding stars or whatever, none of
ours practice witchcraft.” His blue face
darkened as he looked to the south curve
of the valley where the crags rose to one
great peak, on top of which stood a small
stone building. "Except, of course, the old
sorceress called Ylarna, who has been in
that place since time began. No one in the
valley visits her, or has ever seen her closely,
but she is spoken of as very learned in
matters of science. She is truly a dark woman
controlling fearful powers.”

"I cannot take a mate,” Shannon repeated.
"I know I should not believe a thing like
that, but some things are very deep in men,
and can’t be easily removed. I must find
another way.” He straightened himself in
the saddle, adding, “We’d better start back.”

Borne turned his horse and headed down
the slope.

When he had gone only a hundred yards,
he stopped, bending his body to listen with
the wind. Then he swiveled in his saddle
and faced the red-haired man.

"Shannon,” he murmured, his voice
harsh, "The Drums!”

Shannon looked below to the city. In the
great central square he could see a tiny
figure beating upon two large hide circles.
People were streaming from the buildings,
gathering in the open area. The blue glass
hydroponic sheds were also emptying, pour-
ing running figures into the city. -

"The Drums mean danger,” Borne said
sharply. "They are never beaten except in
times of trouble.”

Shannon kicked his horse and plunged
down the rocky slope. Borne behind him.
The}’ raced down to the valley floor and the
horses lengthened their strides as they
pounded toward the rising towers.

The Drums were louder now, great beat-
ing thunders that rolled across the valley,
carried by the strong wind under the burn-
ing sky.

They came at last to the square. There
The Drums deafened their ears. The naked
blue Mercurian beating them with large
padded sticks was sweating, his face frozen
in worry. The people drew back for Borne
and Shannon, who rode up before The
Drums. The red-haired man watched the
crowd as it milled and jabbered. He smiled
sardonically. The)’ had forgotten their sus-
picion of him for the moment.

"Where is my father?" Borne shouted
over the echoing pulse.

Without missing a stroke, the naked man
raised one beater and pointed at a tall stone
tower. Shannon glanced up and saw a small
black knot of men on the topmost balcony.

"Come,” Borne yelled, jumping off his
horse and hurrying into the lower entrance
to the tower. Shannon followed him rapidly.
Despite the fear on the part of the people,
Old Kexsten and his son respected the

WAR DRUMS OF MERCURY LOST

Earthman’s knowledge, and followed his
counsel when it happened to agree with
their plans.

The tower was dark and cool as they ran
up the winding stairway, emerging at last
on the balcony where stood Old Kersten
and the city elders. Far below, most of the
square was in shadow, but the drummer
still beat.

The chieftain stood with his eyes to a
crude telescope, peering to the west where
lay the Gate, a narrow defile which was the
sole entrance to the valley of Nomoon.

One of the elders whispered that Borne
had arrived and the old man turned, his
rich blue beard slapping ludicrously. Appre-
hensively he handed the telescope to Borne.
He looked and gasped, then handed it to
Shannon.

Coming through the Gate was a party of
five horsemen, all natives. They were dressed
in long black flapping robes. The foremost
rider carried a spear bearing upon it a
tattered flag of bright red cloth.

"Who are those men?” asked Shannon.

"They are from the valley of Dorgos,”
replied the old man. "It lies to the west.
Many years ago we fought a great war with
them, a war which neither side won. Since
then we have been enemies, never venturing
into one another’s territory.”

"Perhaps they want to establish peaceful
relations once again,” Shannon offered.

The elders grumbled at that, and Borne
spoke up, "The red cloth they carry is the
Banner of Blood, their war flag. They are
not on a peaceful mission.”

"We shall go to the great hall and await
them there,” Old Kersten said, moving to
the stairwell.

The group of men walked down the
twisting stairs in the chill and musty shad-
ows. The drums had stopped, and the
voices of the crowd drifted upward.

Perhaps, thought Tol Shannon, if trouble
comes, I can show them that I am loyal to
Nomoon. In some way I must show them!

The curse from his young days in New
Dublin was forgotten as he accompanied
the rulers of Nomoon down the twisting
staircase to the great hall where they would
meet the men of Dorgos who rode under
the Banner of Blood.

5 — PLANET — January

65

But the curse was soon to be remembered,

T HE vast hall was filled with a ripple of
fevered excitement.

At one end, on a high dais, Old Kersten
and his son sat. The elders of Nomoon were
clustered around them. Shannon lounged
on the steps of the dais, lower than the
rulers, yet separated from the crowds of
blue-skinned men and women lining the
sides of the hall.

Shannon smoked meditatively, wondering
at the mission of the Dorgos. Old Kersten
and Borne kept their eyes on the tall doors
at the opposite end of the long chamber.

The ripple of excited fearful talk mush-
roomed upward, reminding Shannon of the
waves on the distant oceans of Deep Nep-
tune. The sound rose and roared and
smashed at the walls.

Then the monstrous heavy doors were
slowly swinging open, pulled by towns-
people from without. A long bar of sun-
light splashed along the floor, remaining
perfect for a moment, and then shattering
under the grotesque shadows of five men.

The hall was still, with only the faint
whisper of the wind against the vaulted
ceiling.

The five Mercurians strode down the path
of sunlight, their black robes rustling, halt-
ing at last before the dais, a few feet from
where Shannon sat.

The first of the group, carrying the Ban-
ner of Blood in his left* hand, stepped
forward, addressing the ruler.

"Greetings, Kersten, Lord of Nomoon. ”
He did not bow, as was customary.

The old man answered in a strong voice
that carried only a hint of contempt, "Greet-
ings, Blackthos, Lord of Dorgos.”

The Earthman glanced at the speaker who
carried the scarlet flag. Evidently he held
the same position as Kersten in his valley.
He was much younger however, and his
eyes seemed to move constantly. The blue
skull was shaven clean of its thin wispy
hair.

"What brings you to Nomoon under the
Banner of Blood?” Kersten inquired. The
people shifted nervously, listening to each
word.

Blackthos smiled ingratiatingly. "Not the
Banner of Blood, Lord Kersten. That is a

66 PLANET

mere formality. The true banner is one of
friendship within the hearts of the people
of Dorgos.”

The old ruler was impassive, but Borne
snickered.

Blackthos ignored the thrust. "Lord
Kersten, we of Dorgos have a pitiful plight
to report to you, our brother, knowing that
you and your people will surely assist us.”

"Continue,” Kersten said coldly.

"Some weeks ago a body from space,
some cosmic wanderer, round and hard as
the mountains of Mercury, fell into our
valley. It brought death, Lord Kersten, burn-
ing death that enveloped our land, destroyed
our crops and now has infected some of our
people.”

Radioactivity from a meteor, thought
Shannon. He listened attentively to the voice
of Blackthos, even as he noted that the doors
of the hall were closed. And there was some-
thing subtly strange about the men from
Dorgos . . .

"We have come to ask you,” Blackthos
went on, "to allow us to migrate into the
valley of Nomoon to escape the burning
death.”

A whisper of shock rattled through the
room. Borne stiffened in rage but Old Kers-
ten had not changed his expression.

"And why, Blackthos,” he said, "should
we allow you, our enemies, to come into our
valley and share its profits?”

"Because,” came the reply, tinged with
hardness and vicious strength, "you are
good and kind.”

Borne snorted. "Go back to Dorgos and
rot to death, Blackthos!”

"And because,” the Lord of Dorgos fin-
ished, his voice a sharp sword cutting
through the stillness, "if you do not allow
us to enter your valley of your own generos-
ity, then we shall come with our warriors
and kill you. We shall burn the city of
Nomoon and build anew!”

Kersten was on his feet, crying, "Ride
out, Blackthos, and be damned!”

B LACKTHOS passed a hand over his
shaven blue head and shrugged. His
Tien, carrying no weapons, merely stood
their ground.

There was an instant of hesitation in the
room, and Shannon seized it. Rising, he

STORIES

addressed the people, as well as Old
Kersten.

"Even if you wished to let the people of
Dorgos come in, purely for the sake of
being merciful, you could not allow it.”
Shannon gestured at the five men, emphasiz-
ing what he had noticed a moment before.
"The people of Dorgos, including these
men, carry the mark of the death in them.”

The people gaped. For in the dimness of
the hall, Blackthos and his men were
limned in a pale aura of ghostly gray light,
emanating from their bodies.

"They would infect and kill us all. There
would be no end.” He turned and spoke
directly to Blackthos. "Return to your home
and make your burial wishes. You are be-
yond life, beyond help. Do not curse others
with your own misfortune.”

Angry at the discovery of his secret,
Blackthos spat at Shannon. The redhead
wiped the spittle from his face. His green
eyes closed to slashes in the gloom. He
stepped forward and lashed out with the
side of his hand, catching the Mercurian
in the neck. He stumbled. Shannon stepped
back and waited.

But Blackthos motioned his men toward
the entrance. The portal creaked open and
the sunlight crept in once more. The gray
auras were gone.

Blackthos kept his gaze on the dais, but
it seemed to take in the crowd and Shannon
as well.

"I have asked in peace,” he growled
wrathfully. "But now prepare. Prepare with
your pitiful rocks and clubs. You have no
weapons, and we have a power you cannot
match. We can make even the dead walk
against you. We shall return through the
Gate very soon, and this time we shall carry
the Banner of Blood in all sincerity. You
will wait. Death will come to you; death
under the Banner of Blood!”

Snarling his final words, he turned and
stalked out of the hall. The room remained
quiet as his men followed, and then there
came the clatter of hooves on stone, and
after that nothing.

Suddenly the hall broke once more into
the raging tumult of human excitement.
Young Borne spoke to his father in angry
shouts.

But Tol Shannon stood peering at the

WAR DRUMS OF MERCURY LOST 67

road of sunlight to the doors. His body felt
cold as the stone walls. Blackthos had
spoken . . .

"... we can make even the dead walk
against you . .

The curse! Shannon’s brain howled, the
second part of the curse!

"... and the living dead are marching
from the grave ...”

What had he meant? What could he
possibly have meant? He rubbed a hand
across his face as if to wipe away the
thoughts. Still the thing rang through his
head like a horrible chant.

He leaped up on the dais, confronting
Old Kersten.

"What did he mean about the dead walk-
ing against us?”

"I don’t know,” the old man replied
tiredly.

"Will they come? Will they carry through
a war?”

"Of course they will,” Borne snapped.

"Could they have some strange weapon?
Do they know much of science and strange
lore?”

"They could have a weapon,” Kersten
admitted. He seemed straining under some
terrible effort, trying to make his mind
function properly. The sound of the people
babbling their fear was a roaring current of
noise all around them.

"But does Nomoon have weapons to com-
bat them?” Shannon queried insistently.
"Until today I’ve heard no talk of war. Do
we have weapons?”

"Clubs, rocks, spears,” Borne put in, "as
Blackthos said.”

"Then, by Sol, we’ve got to make wea-

f »*

pons!

The elderly ruler stared into Shannon’s
intense eyes and laughed a short jagged
laugh. "We do not know how. Do you?”

"No,” he replied lamely, "I have used
them but I don’t know how to make them.
I’ve fought all over the nine worlds but I
don’t know how to engineer a battle. Per-
haps we can throw hydroponic plants at
them. That’s one thing I can supervise.”

"We must organize the men of Nomoon
at once,” Borne exclaimed eagerly. "Black-
thos is willing to fight for his life, and so
are we. Our weapons will work. They must
work!”

“You want to die, don’t you,” Shaatnon
stated tonelessly.

"Tell us how we may fight otherwise,”
Kersten said bitterly. "Tell us.”

Something fell into place within Shannon,
a memory. "Yes, I have a suggestion. Per-
haps it is not good, but we can at least try.
Borne, earlier today you told me of the old
sorceress who lives in that stone house in
the mountains to the south. What was her
name . . . ?”

"Ylarna,” muttered Borne.

"Yes, Ylarna. You said she had know-
ledge of scientific matters. We can go to her.
Perhaps she can help us to make weapons.”
Kersten’s face was pale. Ages of super-
stition and dark legend was welling up
within him. "What are you saying, Earth-
man? She is a witch, accursed! She knows
things no living being should have learned!
She cannot make weapons. She can only
make demons! We will not go to her!”
"Are you afraid?” Shannon asked. "I will
go to her for you.”

Borne seized Shannon’s arm, held it in
a biting grip. "No man of our valley will go
to Ylarna! We will rise or fall by our own
strength. We will not be eternally damned
by a woman who is mistress of darkness!”
"I said that I would go for you,” Shan-
non repeated.

Borne’s voice was a roar shouting the
babble of the crowd to silence. "I told you
that we of Nomoon would not go. Ylarna
is ancient and evil. Make your choice. Are
you one of us, to live and die as we do?
Or will you still seek her aid?”

Shannon looked out over the faces of the
people staring up at him from their triangu-
lar blue heads. These were his people. He
had wanted it that way.

"Well?” said Borne.

Despite the curse, Shannon knew what
his answer must be.

"I will stay with you.”

. . . and go secretly to Ylarna to seek
assistance, he finished to himself.

A ragged smile slipped over Borne’s blue
face. Shannon did not like lying, but what
else . . .

Kersten speaking to his subjects cut off
his thoughts: “The women will go to their
homes. The men will remain here. We must:
begin to plan.”

68 PLANET STORIES

In a few moments the hall had emptied
save for the warriors. They seated them:
selves on the floor.

Kersten began his directions. "We may
expect an attack on the Gate in not less than
three days hence ...”

Sitting on the chilly stone, Shannon re-
membered New Dublin.

"... and the living dead are marching
from the grave . . .”

Perhaps the dead would be marching to,
instead of from the grave. Perhaps, if there
was no help from the sorceress Ylarna, the
dead would be the people of Nomoon.

II

T WO days and nights slipped by under
the furnace of tire Mercurial sun. Shan-
non watched the men of Nomoon making
dubs and spears and rude hatchets from the
stones lying about the valley floor. He
helped them, even as he waited for a
chance to slip away to the high crag where
Ylarna lived. But there was always one of
the elders near at hand watching. They dis-
trusted him more than ever, now that word
had spread of his outburst in the great hall.
Even Borne watched him covertly at times.

Old Kersten set guards watching the
Gate. Two great drums would be beaten
when the approaching forces of Blackthos
were seen. Two days of toil, and the city
settled down to wait for the coming of the
Banner of Blood.

Shannon’s opportunity came on the eve-
ning of the second day. A meeting had been
called by Old Kersten in the central hall.
But Shannon dismissed the messenger,
feigning illness. Quickly he mounted and
rode away.

Through the empty streets he clattered.
Overhead the sky was a moonless bowl of
gold-strung shadow. Behind the walls of the
city. Shannon knew, there were men and
women shivering, sighing softly and waiting
for the first beat of the drums from the
Gate.

Out across the valley floor he rode, not
daring to think of the consequences should
he be caught. Up the steep slopes to a nar-
row deserted pathway. And still higher,
•until the stars were close above, and the city
was lost in the pit of night below. His horse

blew plumes of grayness into the high cool
air. Above were no more crags. Ahead, at
the end of the narrow trail, stood a small
stone house.

He dismounted and walked toward the
dusky doorway. His hands were sweaty as
he pulled nervously at the loop of gold
in his left ear. What kind of a devil-crone
would she be? And could she help? She must
help!

"I watched. I knew you were coming,
Tol Shannon.”

The voice came from the doorway where
something seemed to move. He marveled at
the softness, the gentleness of the voice.
Remarkable for such an old woman.

"You . . . watched?” he repeated wood-
enly.

“And heard. Yes. Enter the house of
a . . .” The voice paused, and the next word
carried within it a bitter smile. "... a
witch.”

He strode to the doorway, brushed aside
a curtain, and entered a simple, plain room,
lit by an oil lamp. There was a workbench
cluttered with apparatus along one side. He
recognized it as highly complicated machin-
ery, but most of it was in fields apart from
hydroponics. There were no other furnish-
ings.

Only Ylarna, the witch.

He drew in a sharp breath.

She was young! And yet, she was not
young. Her face and body were almost too
perfectly formed in beauty to be human.
And her eyes were different universes. In
them Shannon could read all the birth and
death, all the pain and cruelty and truth of
a million dead years of stars.

She smiled half-shyly. "I admire you for
coming.”

"You know why I am here?”

Assenting, she pulled aside a large radia-
tion stove. There was a crystal screen im-
bedded in the wall, blank and gray.

"A viz circuit,” Shannon wondered.
"Then you do know science!”

"Yes, I do. I am not a demon as the
simple people of Nomoon say, but my
science is far advanced from even that of
the present modern system. I have been
working for four hundred years. My father
was a life-chemist. He experimented to in-
crease my life span to nearly eight hundred

69

WAR DRUMS OF MERCURY LOST

years. Since he died, I have done nothing
but work here. It ... it has been very
lonely.”

Instinctively Shannon felt drawn to her.
Her beauty was something that could not
pass away. It was near to the beauty of . . .
of a god. She saw his thoughts and said,
"Because you have come to me, the first in
four hundred years, I will help you. When
you don’t require food or sleep, and when
you are regarded as a fearful legend, time
grows heavy, even when you work as I do.”
"All right,” Shannon murmured inanely.
It was so laughably simple. He believed her.
There was no question of that.

"You know the situation, then?”
"Certainly.”

“What is the weapon of the Dorgos?’’
She gestured to the gray screen. "Watch
there.” Pressing switches in the workbench
top, she brought a scene into focus.

It was a burial ground. The black-robed
men of Dorgos were digging open the
graves under the light of flaring torches.
One of the Dorgos would climb down in
the open grave and attach a round metal
disk and chain about the neck of the decay-
ing corpse. And then, tire pale blue corpse
would rise, slowly, slowly, the dirt falling
away and bits of rotten flesh breaking free.
But the corpse would rise and climb from
the grave and move to take its place in a
line of corspes, where naked eyes stared
unseeing at the guttering lights.

ft was the prophecy! The curse! "Turn it
off,” Shannon choked. "It makes me sick.”

Y LARNA threw the switches and the
screen blanked out. "It is not a pleasant
thing to watch. They have been doing that
for two days. Already they have a very
large force.”

"Can those . . . things . . . fight?” Shan-
non wanted to know.

"Not really. They can move forward, but
they cannot be stopped by weapons of any
kind.”

“How do they make them move? How
can they make the dead live?”

"They don’t live at all. The Dorgos are
more advanced technically than the folk of
Nomooa. Blackthos allows experimentation
with science so long as is beneficial to his
regime. One of their technologists hit upon

a very simple principle, as yet unknown to
most of the system scientists. Blundered
into it, really. They still don’t understand
why or how the machine began to work.
But it will focus cosmic force-beams on
inorganic matter, giving it some properties
of organic life: forcing it into motion, and
making it capable of stimulation to obey
simple orders. The Dorgos dug up their
graveyards, and as long as they keep the ray
generator operating and transmitting im-
pulses via the disks they have an invincible
army. It can trample the natives to death, or
frighten them to madness.”

“I don’t understand it very well,” Shan-
non fumbled. "I did a little university work
in hydroponics. Cosmic force-beams . . . ?”
"The energizing, life-giving rays that
maintain being in stars. They’re a kind of
ultimate life-force holding the universe
chained together. That is very erode, but
you would understand little more.”

“Yes, I understand. But what can we do
to stop them?”

"I could build a similar focus beam,
which can either activate dead matter, or be
reversed to burn out their beam, causing
the bodies to collapse and become inorganic
once more. With the time I have had to
experiment, it is relatively easy. I could have
helped Nomoon at any time. But ... I was
afraid to go to them. I know so little of their
thought-processes. You had courage to
come.” Her eyes were gazing somewhere
beyond him.

Afraid! he thought. This magnificent
woman afraid! Nearly immortal, working
with strange new branches of technical en-
deavor, as simply as most women did their
menial tasks. Afraid, this being who could
control tire very life powers binding and
chaining the universe together. Afr . . .

He knew then with certainty that the
walls of circumstance were closing:

"... when a woman holds the webs of
stars between her hands ...”

Roughly, he moved forward, touching her
shoulders clad in a pale green robe, smiling
strangely as his eyes danced in the light of
the oil lamp. He looked deep into her im-
mortal face.

"Destruction,” he murmured, and kissed
her.

After that, they worked hurriedly. He

PLANET STORIES

70

helped with manual tasks, welding small
sections of the machine together. Her hands
danced whitely over coils and joinings.
Shannon felt jubilant.

There was the curse. But they could stop
the armies of Dorgos, and that would prove
his loyalty to Nomoon. And he had Ylarna
now. Not once did they look beyond the
curtained doorway of the house. Shannon
listened for the sound of the warning drum
from the Gate to the west, but the world of
Mercury remained silent; Ylarna worked
rapidly, glancing at him occasionally, brush-
ing his hand as he handed her a piece of
equipment.

Hours went by unnoticed, and finally
Ylarna brushed back her dark hair and said,
"Finished. We will ride across the valley
to the Gate. We must avoid detection.”

"When the Dorgos are conquered,”
Shannon told her, "what is there for us? I
am afraid of you. But I love you.”

Her smile was warm. "I can make you as
I am, Tol Shannon, for I know the secret.
I can teach you the keys to make the universe
open for you. We can have many wonderful
children.”

"We can’t speak of that now,” he said
quickly. "We must go to the Gate!”

He hefted the small metal cube with dials
and toggles on one vapid face. Ylarna
pushed the curtain aside and they stepped
out into the hot morning sunlight. She
mounted behind him, carrying the lethal
machine, and he sent the horse down the
steep pathway. The city of Nomoon seemed
peaceful far below.

Rounding the final bend to where the
path widened out, Shannon jerked the horse
to a stop.

There was a stone spear-point pressing
against his belly.

Ill

B EHIND the spear was Borne, and be-
yond him a small body of armed
mounted men.

"The messenger saw you leave the city
when you pretended sickness, Tol Shannon,”
Borne said. His voice was contemptuous.
"We followed. You chose this, instead of
honor and duty to Nomoon, which you
professed to love.”

Shannon sat still, wondering if he should
bolt his horse free.

"Do not attempt to escape,” the young
man said coldly. "You will return with us
to the city, the woman with you. When the
trouble with Dorgos is finished we will
execute you both. I warn you, any feats of
witchery by the woman will result in your
death.” ,

"I will do nothing,” Ylarna proclaimed.

"Listen to me, Borne,” Shannon pleaded.
"I know what the Dorgos will bring against
you. You can’t imagine it, or even hope to
win against it. We can destroy the wea-
pon . . .”

"Nomoon rises or falls by its own
power!” Borne snarled.

"Then you will die a hundred million
deaths, you insane idiot!” Shannon shouted
back. "You’re nothing but a blind, igno-
rant ...”

Borne howled his rage, and the spear
raked down Shannon’s face. The Earthman
felt the blood trickle into his mouth. Ylarna
clutched his waist, the metal machine held
between them.

With the Mercurians riding like blue
statues all about, they returned to the city
in a ring of spears. Ylarna for all her
wisdom and beauty was like a little child
getting her glimpse of the adult world.

Well, thought Shannon, I tried. The
curse of New Dublin, from the mouth of an
ancient hag.

The people lining the dim streets cowered
in fascinated fear as they rode by. The men
watching the procession were armed with
their pitifully inadequate clubs and spears,
undoubtedly confident of victory.

Old Kersten stood on the high balcony
of the tower, frowning down at Shannon
and Ylarna. She was still clutching her
machine. They were herded inside the tower,
then below ground to the dungeons.

Borne locked them in a heavy-doored cell,
and stood back, wondering at Shannon’s
degraded actions.

“You were once my friend,” he said,
confusion flitting on his triangular blue face.
Ylarna crouched in the corner, holding the
box, which Borne had overlooked as a use-
less sort of charm, in his whirling thoughts
of betrayal and the battle to come.

"I am not the friend of imbeciles,” Shan-

WAR DRUMS OF MERCURY LOST

non spat. "I am not the friend of slavering,
fear-haunted . .

"Your curse, Tol. That is superstition.”

"The curse,” the redhead replied morose-
ly, "has come true.”

Borne started to speak again, but halted,
listening.

. From above ground came a shivering
beat.

The Drums from the Gate!

Borne raced for the stairs.

Shannon shouted after him, "When
Blackthos pins you to the earth with the
Banner of Blood, remember us. When the
dead men are coming, remember us.
When . . .”

He stopped. The dungeon was silent,
except for the echoing ghostly cry, "... re-
member us . . . remember . . . us . . . us . . .”

Wearily he sank down to the floor. Ylarna
touched his cheek. "I can be killed, Tol
Shannon. Will they kill us?”

"I thought they might. Now there won’t
be anyone left to kill us.” He stood up. "I
tried to help them, Ylarna. I did want to
help them. And now they’re marching to
the Gate. They can’t stop Blackthos.” Listen-
ing to the distant thunder of the Drums,
he slammed his fist against the heavy door,
choking, "And neither can we.”

Shannon stood for a long moment, pain
beating up his arm from his fist. That door,
that door. He had to open it!

Savagely, he whirled on Ylarna.

"I am sorry, ’’she was saying. "I do not
know much of the world of men. I have
observed them, but I Jo not understand their
behavior at times. Our capture . .

"... was my fault,” Shannon answered
bitterly. "I should have taken precautions.
But we’ve got to get out of here.” He
pointed a finger at the metal box oa the
floor. "Can that get us out?"

"No.”

"It’s got to!” he yelled.

"Tol Shannon,” she began in a pleading
voice.

But her thoughts died unspoken. His
face had gone slack, and he was whispering
hoarsely, “Inorganic . . . inorganic ... to
organic ... by Sol!”

"What are you thinking?" she asked
spaiddy.

"Ylarna, the machine you made can burn

71

out the beam activating the corpses of Black-
thos. But you said ... it could also activate
inorganic matter into organic, give it move-
ment and direction! You told me that, didn’t
you?”

"Yes.” Eyes wide.

"Turn it on the door!” Shannon breathed.
"Give the walls of this room life . . . and
make them move!”

"I ... I don’t know if it will work,” she
complained, and Shannon sensed that she
was somehow terrified, experimenting here
in the world of human beings.

"Turn it on and try!” he bit out.

She set the metal box in the center of the
floor, adjusting dials and toggles osi one
face. Shannon felt sweat running down
beneath his armpits. Down . . . and down
like the blood from the men of Nomoon
trampled under the horde of lifeless things.

"Faster!” he snarled.

Her fingers leaped over the controls.
Finally she stepped back and moved close
to him, watching.

There was no light, no sound, no sign of
functioning from the machine. But after a
moment or two, the walls of the cell began
to . . . crawl!

Shannon could think of no other word to
describe it. The walls retained their previous
stationary positions, but they pulsed and
twitched and writhed, struggling as if from
a searing heat of life burning up out of
their bowels.

"Now,” Shannon said in an awed voice,
"make them part. Make them separate!”

She murmured her fears once more.

"Do it!” he commanded.

"They will split,” she said weakly.

Suddenly the tiny room was filled with a
great groaning and grinding noise, as if the
delicate balance of weight pressing down
from above had shifted.

The cell door, now an unbroken mass of
flaccid grayness, was splitting down the
center.

S EIZING the machine and pulling Ylarna
after him, Shannon raced down the
corridor. The groaning of the building was
much more intense.

Running for tire stairway, Shannon felt
a sharp object strike his arm, and heard
Ylarna’s frantic voice behind him, "The

PLANET STORIES

72

life in the walls! It has weakened the
tower. Collapse ...”

"Up the stairs!” Shannon cut her off
rshove the mounting rumble.. "Don’t speak!”

Pushing her before him, he took the
stairs in long leaps, holding tight to the
precious box. The stone corridor was shak-
ing, and rocks fell more rapidly, breaking
free of the walls.

They clambered over a pile of stones at
the top of the staircase. Ahead lay the square
of sunlight that was the door. Over the
ramble Shannon heard the sound of the
Drums, mingled with the frightened shrieks
of women and children in the city, driven
to fear by the vision of the tottering tower.

Desperately they struggled toward the
door, amid a deadly shower of falling
stones. One large piece of rock struck his
shoulder and bounded against Ylarna’s neck.
He felt her clutch at his arm and fall to one
knee.

She could not rise. Pain from a twisted
leg lashing across her lovely face. Frantical-
ly he pulled at her. There was a rushing
flurry of sound and he glanced up. The
ceiling was beginning to buckle. It tumbled
lazily down toward them.

A part of him seemed to watch the scene
from some abstract position. To die, only a
few yards from the doorway . . .

Ylarna pulled her hands free, and shoved
against his body with all her strength. He
stumbled backwards, off balance, feeling his
back strike the doorway and careen dizzily
beyond.

From within the tower he heard Ylarna
screaming above the roar of falling rock,
“Shield the machine!”

Dumbly he realized that he was stumbling
backward off balance, and that he could not
prevent 4 . fall. He clutched the machine to
his chest as he toppled. His head struck the
stone and darkness came fountaining up.
His last thought was of Ylarna, crushed
Meneath the collapsing tower of stone.

I'V

W HEN he awoke, he was still on his
back, and the box rested safely on his
chest. Sunlight burst through his eyelids and
be got carefully to his feet, too disorganized
to think properly. Instinctively, though, he

set the machine down in a clear space and
looked about.

The Drums were still, but he heard the
hysterical gibbering of women. The tower
was a tall, roughly conical pile of rubble,
fallen almost perfectly inward, strangely
symmetrical as it pointed toward the sun.

Shannon staggered to the mass of ruin,
pulling aside one small stone as he shouted,
"Ylarna! Ylarna!”

Something writhed from the pile. A once-
white woman’s arm, now gray and bruised.
He could see part of a shoulder, and a little
of her face through a tiny opening where
she was buried quite near the ground. And
he heard a weak voice as if from infinitely
long stone crypts:

"Bring the machine . , . death is near . . .”

He began to claw at the rock in a futile
attempt to free her. The voice cut in once
more, and it was full of the power of four
hundred years of magnificent life. "Bring
the machine!”

He set it down near her hand. That hand,
stained now with a glistening stream of red
blood, leaped over the toggles and dials.
It seemed to Shannon some surrealistic
nightmare; the great conical pile of stone
under a swollen sun, and the slim stained
arm reaching forth to caress a metal cube.

The voice came again, "Take the box and
ride to the Gate. I have activated the shorter
beam to destroy the power of the corpses.
Perhaps the dead men ate already . . .
through ...”

"I’ll dig you out,” he choked, tearing at
another rock.

"No!” Her speech, though sharp and full
of authority, was filled with a muffled slow-
ness. "I know why you want to do this.
But you must not remember me as you ride
to the Gate. There is more destruction there
than here under a pile of stones. Forget the
smaller death. I do not feel . . . sorry . . .
four hundred years . . . "She seemed to
grope for air.

He stood stock still. Then he bent, slowly
picking up the box, full of immense sorrow,
but knowing the way.

"I’ll go,” he whispered.

The hand moved weakly, conveying in
one gesture more love than a thousand
written books. Shannon touched his lips to
the white hand, and rose, turning his back

73

WAR DRUMS OF MERCURY LOST

on the fallen tower.

Across the square were huddled the
women of the city, peering at the wreck
and speaking in jabbers.

Shannon ran to them, carrying the ma-
chine, and called for a mount. They moved
like dumb cattle, shifting their feet, and
he shrieked from bloody lips. One crept
away and returned with a horse.

A short time later he was thundering out
of the city toward the Gate, holding the ma-
chine, knowing it sent its magic beam to-
ward the now-silent Drums of destruction.

The Battle of the Gate was long remem-
bered in Nomoon. The warriors were strug-
gling against a steady tide of advancing
moldy things; struggling to quench the
screaming that wanted to bubble up in
them; they quenched it with the thought
that they were fighting for existence, and
returned to the fray somewhat strengthened.
But they were being slowly pushed back,
trampled under musty, dead feet. Behind
the line of naked-eyed things, Borne and
his father could see Blackthos riding leisure-
ly with his followers. Blackthos carried the
Banner of Blood, and the beam-generator
activating the corpses lay on his saddle. The
square metal cube, however, was a mystery
to Borne. But he understood all too well the
smile of triumph of the Lord of Dorgos.

The men of Nomoon swung at the dead
things with rocks and stone hatchets, but
still they came. With terrible rapidity, first
one and then another of Nomoon’s warriors
shouted and fled slobbering insanely as the
walking horrors kept moving on. The Mer-
curial sun broiled calmly.

Old Kersten and Borne swung their wea-
pons side by side, but both were aware of
the impending defeat. Both were aware of
the madness rising within their own brains.

And then the dead men began to waver,
teetering crazily and stumbling to the
ground, almost as one. They did not move,
even as Blackthos and several of his tech-
nologists struggled with the machine, twist-
ing the controls in confused bewilderment.

The men of Nomoon rallied forward,
their minds miraculously cleansed of the
seeping rot of madness.

Borne clutched his father’s shoulder and
gestured. Across the valley floor came Tol
Shannon, with blood smeared upon his face,

and a box similar to that of the Dorgos on
his mount’s back. He was kicking the horse
to a frenzied gallop.

Through the lines of Nomoon went
Shannon, pausing only to set the box secure-
ly behind a small boulder. Then he rode
toward Blackthos, who was vainly trying to
collect his men, disjointed and baffled by
the failure of their crowning, supreme wea-
pon. Behind Shannon came the vengeful
hordes of Nomoon.

Borne did not stop to wonder of Shan-
non’s escape, nor of the witch woman. His
arrival had coincided with the fall of the
corpses. That was enough. He raced forward
with the rest, who battled with the ferocity
born when men are fighting for their women,
their homes and their mode of living.

The Battle of the Gate was short after
that. The Dorgos died rapidly, surprised
and cringing, minds distorted by their
legion’s collapse.

And in the middle of the holocaust, as
Nomoon swept to victory, Tol Shannon
sought out Blackthos, the object of all his
collected hatred against the forces that had
destroyed Ylarna. He seized a stone blud-
geon. Blackthos stabbed at him with the tip
of the Banner of Blood, but Shannon carried
in him the thousand strengths of hate. Tol
Shannon pulled the struggling Blackthos to
the ground and beat his brains into a dark
sticky mash.

V

S HANNON turned away from the square
marker by the little house. Beneath the
marker were buried the tattered remains of
Ylarna. He could not cry even a little. Since
the battle, emotion was squeezed and
drained from his body.

He walked down the narrow path to
where his horse stood quietly. The wind
whipped against him and the stars were
glittering eyes peering from a far black
world.

Borne waited, too, holding a flaring torch.
"I buried her,” Shannan stated flatly.
Mounting, the two men proceeded down
the slope. Finally, Borne said in a fumbling
manner, "I can scarcely ask forgiveness for
the wrong done to you. A man, or a people,
who behave as mindless slugs do not. deserve

PLANET STORIES

74

forgiveness.”

Almost not hearing, Shannon kept his
eyes across the valley, to the Gate, where
huge flaming bonfires reached into the stars.
The men of Nomoon were burning the
bodies of Dorgos, corpses and radioactive
humans alike, removing forever the taint of
death from the valley. Shannon felt sorry,
somehow, for the women and children of
Dorgos, waiting somewhere for new r s of
victory, but he realized that a sick man does
not really wish to infect others with his
disease. He only thinks such thoughts oc-
casionally. The Dorgos had been a large
organism, a whole social structure. What
man did want to die? He even found him-
self feeling faintly sorry for Blackthos. But
then he remembered Ylarna.

"The curse did come true,” he said in a
hollow voice, unconsciously speaking his
thoughts. . . . the house of Shannon shall
fail forever into death . . .’ Truth, for I am
the last of the Shannons, and we would have
mated, and children would have come.
Now . , His earlier pangs of pity for the
Dorgos vanished. He was again empty.

"Please,” said Borne, "let me speak.”

Shannon turned and Borne saw the jade
eyes stabbing into his. To Borne, the man’s
face seemed like one of the corpse-army.
Emotion was scorched out, and only the
loop of gold joggled brilliantly in the torch

light.

• Borne fumbled for words. "We ... of
Nomoon . . . once, Tol, you said that you
had to prove yourself to us. Now, my father,
myself, and the people, are in your position.
We must prove ourselves to you, make our-
selves worthy to call you brother. We owe
you more than poor words can express.
We owe you life, and that cannot be mea-
sured in words. But give us a chance to
repay you. Please, Tol, give us a chance!”

His earnest voice was stilled, and there
was only the clatter of the horses and the
sighing of the wind as it whipped the torch
into long orange ribbons of flame.

Within Shannon rose one emotion, that
he, as well as any living man, could never
quite put down. Love was gone, yes. But he
could belong to the valley of Nomoon, and
could work for them and with them and be
their brother, and perhaps he would not
always be a dead and empty shell.

"Give us the chance, Tol!” Borne re-
peated.

Shannon watched the fire streaming from
the torch in the wind.

"All right,” he said.

Together, the red-haired Earthman and
the blue-skinned warrior of Mercury rode
slowly down the hill, to the city of Nomoon
lying quietly under the golden eyes of the
universe.

THE SUN-DEATH

By STANLEY WHITESIDE

Captain Lodar's compelling urge to return to Earth was like the
instinct of a dying animal for its lair ... to die with its kind.
Nothing would stop him . . . nothing except death. And the death
of the soaring Vulcan would be his swan song to space.

Norport, U.S.A.
November 2, 2268

Honorable Board of Space Navigation,
Section 6.

Subject: 6B-5
Gentlemen:

In support of a petition on behalf of our
client , we herewith submit a report of the

Mutiny on the Vulcan dramatized for your
convenience, but true in all essentials.

W e beg you to note the extenuating cir-
cumstances and to consider these in render-
ing your decision.

Respectfully yours,

Haley, Cronk, & Touchwife,
Attorneys at Law.

per Jonas Cronk, LLD., MSL., PhD.

T HE Spaceship Vulcan lay on a tangled
mat of vegetation. A thin haze of
blue smoke drifted over it from the
nearby Venusian village where several of

75

PLANET STORIES

76

the grass huts were afire. Under the bulging
side of the ship twenty of the crew were
boisterously herding a group of Venus
Mutes, forcing them into the entrance port
of the hold. There was very little trouble;
only one of the Mutes balked, and a sting
ray soon quieted that.

In the glittering control room of the ship
Ray Burk, Navigator Unlimited, turned
from the viewport with a frown.

"It seems a pity to burn down their
shacks,” he muttered.

He was a large young man with blond
hair, carelessly dressed, yet still bearing that
touch of alert authority characteristic of a
crack spaceship man. Since it was his first
trip on the Vulcan he was still a little out
of place — not that he and Captain Lodar
didn’t understand each other.

Lodar, pacing restlessly back and forth,
made no reply. His black eyebrow's merely
lifted sardonically as he continued his heavy
strides. It was typical of Lodar, whose vast
energy kept him ceaselessly active, but in the
confines of a ship it was like being caged
with a lion.

Ray turned back to the viewport. The
village, burning sluggishly was desolate be-
neath the long column of smoke that rose
in the still air.

Lodar’s strides halted at the magnaflux,
he twdrled the detector impatiently. "Still
clear,” he muttered. Then, louder, "Fix a
course for Earth, Burk. As soon as all are
aboard, we’ll take off.”

Ray glanced quickly at Lodar, surprised
at the sudden change of course, but he said
nothing. This was Lodar’s last flight, if all
went well he was through. Perhaps that was
why he was so savagely nervous. After all, it
was time he quit. Luck had been with him
overlong.

The interphone jingled and Lodar an-
swered it.

"All right, Campora,” he said after a
moment, "get set for takeoff. Then report
up here to me.” He turned to Ray. "Take
off, Mister. Make it snappy!”

Ray checked the safety lights, then sig-
naled for power. He hoped McVane was
sober. The sad-faced little engineer just
couldn’t stay aw'ay from his bottle.

But McVane was at least sober enough,
for the metal floor began to throb gently

as the converters on the lower deck groaned
to life. While the machines built up to
speed Ray adjusted the drive for a sixty de-
gree lift. He could hear the soft grate of the
Benson Plates shifting on the outer hull.

T HE interphone tinkled and Ray heard
McVane’s broad accents. "Ye can rip
the bottom off her. Mister!” Yes, McVane
was drunk again. He’d been out in the space
rays too long perhaps, but the indicators
showed him on the job.

Ray closed the ether drive and the ship
rose silently as if caught on an elevator
belt. He set the course carefully, aware
of Lodar at his elbow, watching. If the
Captain would only watch McVane as he
did the others, things might be a lot better.

Perhaps Lodar was afraid for the hoard
of jewels which was rumored to be aboard.
Ray had heard whispers of this wealth, but
he doubted that Lodar would fear any man,
much less the space rats aft. Why, he could
whip any ten of them!

Still, it might explain the sudden change
in plans. Originally the Vulcan was destined
for Mars where the load of Mutes would
be sold to the zoos. Lodar’s decision to head
for Earth was unexpected, as unexpected as
so many of his brilliant moves.

Ray had cut in the autopilot when the
bulkhead door swung open to admit Cam-
pora. The First Mate still wore his rubber
marsh boots and a gun slung on his narrow
waist.

"A fine haul. Captain.” He touched his
dark mustache and a grin slit the sallow
face. "About fifty Mutes.” Then his grin
faltered as he saw the Captain’s expression.

Lodar faced him with huge fists balled
on his hips.

"Who the hell gave you permission to
set fire to that village, Mister?”

Campora’s brown eyes darted once to Ray
as if for support. His lean hand covered the
black mustache. "Just a little fun for the
boys, Captain.” The Mate’s voice was placa-
ting. "We—”

"Fun, eh!” Lodar’s eyes were narrow as
he thrust his heavy face forward. "If there’s
any fun to be dispensed, I'll do it! Do you
morons realize that the smoke will alert half
the patrol ships in space?”

"I — I’m sorry, Captain.” Campora backed

THE SUN -DEATH

77

away. "You see — ”

"Shut up!” Lodar jerked his dark head.

Take over from Burk.”

Feeling sorry for the cowed mate, Ray
relinquished his controls and gave the
course. Campora stared.

"But — I thought we were to head for
Mars!”

"I changed that,” Lodar interrupted im-
patiently,

"You never told us!” Campora looked
excited. "You agreed that we’d never head
for Earth without warning. You know the
men won’t stand for it!”

"Yes, they will!” Lodar eyed the mate
steadily. "Tell ’em they needn’t worry. I'll
look out for them.”

"There’ll be trouble!” Campora snapped.

"Is that a threat?” The big man’s voice
was icy. Then, as Campora subsided mum-
bling, Lodar turned abruptly to Ray.

"You can come with me, Burk, if you
want to look at the cargo.”

As he headed for the exit Ray followed
curiously. It was the young navigator’s first
trip to Venus and he’d never seen a Mute
close at hand. Which was strange, since
his own past was so inextricably tied up with
them.

Ray had served five years with the Mar-
Venus Company to earn his unlimited navi-
gator’s ticket on the Mars passenger flights.

This company was chartered "to develop
and exploit the planets of Mars and Venus”
and most of its wealth came from the ex-
ploitation. For years Venus Mutes had been
captured and sold to zoos or to wealthy
people for pets.

The practice was strongly condemned by
humanitarian groups on Earth. This became
so vociferous that, finally, the Earth Fed-
eration halted all flights to Venus regardless
of charter.

The Company declared such law was il-
legal. It would send a ship to Venus and
have matters settled in court.

At this time Ray Burk was due to com-
mand his first ship. Ele was offered the
Venus flight — the breaking of law to be
merely a step in establishing precedent, so
they said. It sounded like high adventure,
with himself carrying the ball. He gladly
accepted. And, as expected, he was inter-
cepted by an Earth patrol ship.

But in tni ensuing legal battle the Com-
pany found its very charter jeopardized. It
hastily switched tactics, disclaimed all
knowledge of the flight, and said Ray had
set an incorrect course. Even hardened poli-
ticians smiled at such a thin excuse, but
the Company made it stick. Ray lost his
navigator’s license. He was through.

The Company even went further in order
to clear itself. It righteously promised to
limit the capture of Mutes and save them
from extinction. In fact, it offered to patrol
Venus and stop illegal raids by others.

Then the price of Mutes rose to fantastic
heights. Poachers moved in to reap fortunes
from the trade.

II

L ODAR was one of them. Cashiered from
the Earth Fleet, an ex-officer, he was
well trained to outmaneuver the patrols. It
was he who offered Ray his first job in
months.

Get in on the gravy,” he urged. "They
already made you a goat, and no one else
will employ you!”

After all, it wasn’t criminal. They were
only doing what the Company had done for
years. There was a thrill of adventure in
the risky smuggling, a sense of getting even
with those who had disgraced him unjustly.

Yes, Ray was curious to see these Mutes
who were at the base of his trouble.

He followed Lodar along the central cor-
ridor to the mid-section well, and down to
the lower deck. The surging hum of the con-
verters wafted on the warm air as they
passed the engine room.

In the after hold Jenkins and his Number
Two Gang were bracing a large metal cage.
Entering behind Lodar, Ray stared with
mingled feelings at the captives behind the
bars.

"Why, they look like humans!” he gas-
ped. No wonder so many people objected
to the trade!

They were slightly smaller than humans,
with paler skin, and their hair was blond,
almost ashen. They regarded their captors
with large blue eyes, but the rustling of grass
and skins in which they were dressed was the
only sound they made.

PLANET STORIES

78

"Like our earliest type of man, perhaps,"
Lodar admitted. "But of a different evolu-
tion. No vocal cords.”

"Just dummies.” Jenkins spoke up from
behind Ray.

"That’s a lie!” The indignant voice was
« woman’s.

Gripping the bars, she stared angrily out
at them. She had the small figure of a Mute,
but her bare arms were bronzed, and her
hair was dark, in long curls.

"They can talk.” She shook the bars vig-
orously. "Release us, you sinners!”

Lodar suddenly scowled. "You’re no Ven-
us Mute!” He grabbed her hand and twisted
it over. The palm was small and pink, not
the bluish white of a Mute.

"Turn us loose, you heathen!” she raged,
her large brown eyes aflame. "The Great
Zipher will pour his wrath on you!”

"A missionary!” Lodar snorted savagely.
He whirled on Jenkins. "Who brought her
in here?” he bellowed in sudden fury.

Jenkins backed away, blinking his short
sighted eyes. "I — I don’t know. I never seen
her before.”

The captain turned back to Ray. "Help
me get her out,” he growled.

Ray silently guarded the door while Lodar
entered the cage and dragged the protesting
girl outside. She refused to leave without
the others, but Lodar grimly hauled her out
and threw her clear of the door.

"I ought to throw you off in space!” He
eyed the girl viciously.

Ray locked the door uneasily. Kidnaping
& missionary would mean plenty of investi-
gation. Earth zealously protected all its num-
erous and varied religious workers. This one,
he knew, belonged to a very small sect — a
cult founded in dim antiquity.

"Wait till my father learns of this!” The
girl was rubbing her elbows. "He’ll call
down the wrath of the Great Zipher on
this — this 'ark of abominations! The grave
will open to swallow you. Death and obliv-
ion shall come, and everlasting torment — ”

"Shut up!” Lodar pushed the girl away.
"Why you people waste your time on
Mutes — ”

"They’re not mute!” she stormed. "Woe
to you, you — ”

"Shut up!” Lodar bawled.

"Very well.” She drew herself up to a

full five feet, one, "I’ll show you!” She
went to the bars. "Emu! Emu! Tell this
heathen what the Great Zipher says.”

One of the Mutes shuffled forward, a
man with blank face. He drew a breath and
recited in singsong tones.

"The Great Zipher say, come unto me
all ye who look for work, and I give.”

"See!” The girl turned imperiously.
"Now, let them loose!”

"A parrot!” Lodar snapped. "Come on
above or do I drag you?”

For a moment she looked rebellious, then
she shrugged the skin cloak about her
slender shoulders and turned with them to
the well stairs.

McVane was leaning curiously out the
engine room door, his loose jacket flapping
in the pulsing of warm air.

"A gurrl, eh?” He shook his graying
head. "That’s a bad business, Lodar.” His
pale blue eyes blinked owlishly.

"Don’t get ideas.” Lodar snapped, "It
wasn’t my doing.”

"Nah?” McVane teetered solemnly as he
leaned forward. "What’s your name, girlie?"

"Ellenor.” She stared at the engineer.

McVane blinked. He scratched his whis-
kery chin. "Well, Ellenor, ye can have my
cabin for the while,” he offered.

"Come on, up you go!” Her dark eyes
were bright with anger, but she climbed
to the upper deck without further trouble.

They locked her in McVane’s cabin.

"Funny, Mac giving up his room for
her,” Ray remarked as they headed forward
to the control room.

"Because he’s a no-good drunk?” Lodar
sneered. "While some of us could be little
gentlemen?” His face turned somber. "Mc-
Vane is goofy. Had a wife and two kids.
They were on that spaceship, Jeena, that
was lost a few years back. If I didn’t let
him drink he wouldn’t be worth 'jetting!”

So that explained the captain’s easy going
attitude toward the little engineer. At least
Lodar had some feelings!

"Why not take this girl back to Venus?”
Ray suggested.

"And run into a patrol? Earth Fleet or
Company ship, it makes no difference. If
we’re caught it means life!”

They were operating outside the law, and
no one would listen to their excuses. Rap

THE SUN -DEATH

79

felt suddenly cold as he thought that over.
Unease dampened his admiration for the
captain. Lodar was too smart to be captured,
his ruthless ability would see the Vulcan
through all right. But he was quite capable
of murdering the girl, if necessary, as a
last resort in getting rid of her!

Scowling, Ray followed the captain. In
the control room they found Campora study-
ing the magnaflux. He looked nervous as
Lodar headed straight for him.

"What about this girl we got aboard?’’
the captain demanded harshly.

"Girl?” Campora looked innocent.

"You led the raid, didn’t you?” Lodar's
dark eyes were dangerous. "Maybe you were
looking for some more fun?” He stepped
close to the mate. "Or are you just blind?”

"There was a whole bunch of captives.”
Campora backed away. "We was in a hurry,
and — ”

. "You damned liar!” Lodar seized his
tunic. "You brainless idiot!” His free hand
whipped up to slash across Campora’s face.

With an oath Campora jerked free and
reached for his belt.

Before he could free his gun Lodar’s
heavy fist smashed into his jaw. The mate
slammed against the wall, then sagged to
the floor. "Dirty rat!” Lodar took Jus gun,
then kicked him till he stirred.

"Next time you draw on me,” he grated,
"you go out the disposal chute!”

"That didn’t solve anything.” Ray stooped
to help Campora up.

P ROBABLY Campora had brought the
girl aboard, perhaps her presence
would hang them, but the captain could
have used more proper means of discipline.
Instead he had deliberately goaded Campora
to action. It was as if Lodar had to give
physical vent to his rage like a caged animal
slashing at the bars.

Then, as Lodar turned briefly his way,
Ray thought he saw an appeal for under-
standing in the dark eyes that slowly lost
their angry glare. A fleeting look of the
trapped lion, but it was gone in an instant.

"Mind your own business,” the captain
said sourly. He turned to Campora and
growled, "Go wash your face!”

Ray’s lips tightened helplessly. After all,
Lodar’s word was law. It was the only way

to run a spaceship on its vast journeying
through emptiness. It was the only insurance
against hysteria from taut nerves, the fear
of space rays, and claustrophobia in the little
metal world.

With a long breath he turned to the mag-
naflux and swung the detector beams. The
magnatoid field would instantly react to
anything within five units. There was no
time lapse as with radar, a vital point when
riding on a Benson Drive.

There was no sign of patrols. Only the
dim globe of Venus behind and the smaller
points of Mars and Earth ahead. Except for
the haze of star dust space was empty of
threat.

Lodar was again pacing back and forth.
Ray could hear his heavy step on the metal
plates.

Tramp — tramp — tramp. Then, to his
relief, Lodar halted.

"You’re a handsome young buck.” At the
captain’s light tone Ray turned, surprised,
but there was no sign of mockery on the
other’s heavy face. "You go talk to that
blasted girl. Calm her down. If she’ll keep
her mouth shut promise her we’ll drop her
off on Earth.”

Ray felt his anger dissipate under a surge
of relief. So Lodar was going to take a
chance on the girl’s silence. He was willing
to protect her from the crew and deliver
her right side up. After all, it would have
been simple to drop her off in space. The
crew would never blab. In fact the crew
would have urged it.

Under his hard surface Lodar was all
right!

In more cheerful frame of mind Ray quit
die control room. As he headed along the
main corridor a sudden gale of laughter
echoed from the well. There w'as an un-
pleasant tone to it that drew him, frowning,
to the lower deck.

Several of the crew were in the after hold.
They were grouped around the cage of
Mutes and one of them held a long rod. The
tableau was obvious, Ray strode in angrily.

"That’ll be all of that!” he snapped.

Jenkins’ glasses glinted as he turned, still
grinning. "Captain told us to stand guard,
Sir.”

His short-sighted squint measured the
young navigator.

PLANET STORIES

m

"Get out!” Ray clenched his fist. "All of
you, except Williams, get out!” He waited
as they filed past him with sullen looks,
then he turned into the engine room.

McVane was sitting at his little desk,
drowsing in the warm, oily air. He roused
at Ray’s tread and absently closed a lower
drawer before he turned. Hiding his bottle!
The man would drink himself to death!

"The girl is in your cabin,” Ray said
shortly.

"Good.” McVane’s eyes were bleary and,
for a moment, pity closed in on Ray. After
all, he had no right to condemn the little
engineer for his weakness — his whole family
wdped out.

"What do you know about these Mutes?”
he asked more gently.

"They can’t talk.” McVane drew into
himself. "Go ask the girl if you want to
know!” His hand trembled toward the lower
drawer.

Disgusted, Ray turned away. The whole
crew wore an armor plate of callous indif-
ference! It was like no ship Ray had ever
flown. Muttering, he climbed back to the
main deck, to McVane’s cabin.

The girl was sitting on a bunk, combing
her hair with angry sweeps. She gave him
one hot glance, then ignored him complete-
ly.

“Look,” he began, "I’m as anxious to
get you out of here as you are. I don’t want
to see you— hurt — ”

"The Great Zipher will guard me,” she
snapped. "He gives peace and security in
our times.”

"Sure, sure.” Ray frowned impatiently.
“But the rest of us want peace and security,
too. If you make trouble — ”

"Why is a young man like you consorting
with these sinners?” She looked at him with
sudden curiosity. "You don’t belong here!”

Ray stared at her. What was her name?
Oh, yes, Ellenor.

"If you repent in time — ”

He laughed harshly. "Nothing doing.
This may be no healthy job, maybe I’ll quit
after this, but don’t get ideas. What I came
to — •

"I know what you came to beg,” she said
scornfully. "I will make no deal with evil.
You can’t harm me. You will all slay your-
selves, The ship is doomed!”

She spoke with such certainty that for a
moment Ray wondered if she might know
something. Perhaps she was aware of com-
ing rescue. Still, that was ridiculous. She had
been caged with the rest. She was bluffing,
perhaps to allay her own fears.

He tried another tack. Sympathy. He
asked her about herself.

She was a missionary’s daughter, born on
Venus, and had grown up among tire words
of the Great Zipher.

"And who is the Great Zipher?” Ray
demanded, amused. There were countless
little religions flourishing under free
thought.

"No one knows. We know he saved the
world from the last great plague of De-
pression. People were affected by a great
Gloom and saw no purpose in life. They
shrunk inside and suffered mental disease.
The Great Zipher said — only believe that
ye have plenty, and spend your substance in
good things, and these shall come to pass.”

“And did they?” he prodded.

"Are there any more plagues of Depres-
sion?” she asked tartly.

It sounded like a cheerful religion, but
Ray declined to argue. He reverted back to
his main purpose.

"Being religious, you shouldn’t demand
vengeance onus,” he pointed out. "Suppose
we turn you loose if you promise to keep
that little mouth shut?”'

"Your own sins will betray you anyway.”

"There’s nothing wrong in capturing
these Mutes,” he snapped. "They’re not
human. We don’t mistreat them!”

"How long do they live in captivity?”
she demanded bitterly. "A few months, a
year or two, and then they die. On strange
planets, cut off from all their kind, they die
miserably.”

He gave it up.

When Lodar heard of this he shook his
head and guffawed.

"You're too easy, Burk. Perhaps Campora
can do better.”

"She’ll come to her senses in time,” Ray
urged. Above all, he didn’t want Campora
turned loose on the girl. "Give me time.”

"Yea.” Lodar’s smile was grimly mock-
ing. "In time she’ll make a complete sucker
of you! But it might be diverting. Go
ahead!”

THE SUN -DEATH

III

T HE very vastness of space lends a sense
or security from detection. The enorm-
ous speed required to cover the parsecs
between systems gives advantage to those
who elude the patrols.

The Vulcan, bound for Earth, streaked
through the blackness like a swift needle in
illimitable space. Its sensitive detector beams
probed the spangled cosmos for danger.

Inside, the crews changed shift and slept,
lulled by the warm hum of converters. It
was a secure little world of glittering lights
and steel, no different from the many Com-
pany ships which Ray had flown in the past.

He was standing in tire warm hold, star-
ing through the bars at the Mutes. Their
large eyes turned to his, but there was no
other sign of awareness, life. They were
delicately built, almost like children. No
wonder they snade appealing pets, semi-
slaves.

Almost angrily Ray shook the bars. "Can’t
you talk,” he growled. There was an uneasy
movement, but no answer. "Speak up, you
dumbbells!” He grew impatient under the
silent stares.

Impatient with himself for trying to make
them talk, as if that would solve anything!
Yet, they seemed so intelligent. They were
clothed, they had some sort of local govern-
ment. Surely they must be able to commun-
icate. But they only stared!

He had a fleeting impression as if they
were sorry for him.

He wondered suddenly if they were tele-
pathic. He concentrated on the idea, but
no inkling came. Only blankness. They were
just animals. They had to be.

Abruptly he left the hold and climbed to
the upper deck. In the corridor Williams
stopped him.

“I hear we’re still headed for Earth, Sir."
The man’s dark face held a worried look.

"Yes.” Ray waited, but the other only
shuffled his feet in uncomfortable silence,
so he turned toward tire girl’s cabin.

Ellenor would know the answer.

"Are those Mutes telepathic?” he deman-
ded almost savagely of her. The whole idea
was unwelcome. In fact, his interest ia the
Mutes was like a foolish obsession!

6— PLANET— January

SI

"No.” She stared at him a long while.
"They know how people feel.” she said at
last. "They know how everything feels — •
animals, plants, and even the soil.”

"That’s nothing. I know how people
feel.”

"No, you don’t.” She let that sink in. "On
Venus they know when the soil wishes to
grow things; they know when things are
due to happen. The moon of places tells
them where to settle; where they are wel-
come. Theirs is a language of — of feelings,
you might say.”

"Instinct. Well developed.”

"More than that.” She assumed a kindly
air of instruction. "It is learned. I know that
you, for instance, are at war with yourself.
You admire this Captain Lodar, but he is
evil. Yet you are sorry for him.”

"Sorry!” The idea of feeling sorry for
Lodar was startling. It had never even
vaguely occured to him. Lodar was too self-
sufficient.

She shrugged, a dainty movement. "You
are mentally blind. You don’t believe your
inner senses.” Her delicate face wore a
frown as she groped for words. "Lodar
hopes to retire on Earth, to live in peace on
his ill-gotten gains. But Lodar knows he will
never live to enjoy that peace.” Her eyes
grew large as they met his. He had the
uneasy feeling as if she’d opened his mind
like a book. Probably her words had over-
stimulated his imagination. "And you know
that, too, inside of you,” she ended.

"I know — ”

"That Lodar will die,” she completed
placidly. "Better take us back to Venus.”

■ Was the girl trying to bewitch him? Bog
him down in a tangle of mystic nonsense?
An air of intimacy tingled his senses. He
wanted to touch the girl, to comfort her.
Abruptly he stood up.

"Better think over about that promise to
keep silent.” He felt as if something very
fragile had shattered. He was vaguely sorry
about it, yet determined to stick to reality.

C AMPORA was in the control room
when Ray arrived. Tire First Mate was
anxiously focussing the triangulation vernier
on the magnaflux screen.

"There’s a ship on our tail,” he muttered,
"See if you can analyze it.”

82 PLANET

Ray took over and explored the field for
tensions around the black dot on the screen.

“Got an eight plate Benson Drive,” he
concluded at last. “It’s a Company ship!”

Campora sounded a general alarm. "I
told Lodar to keep off an Earth course!” he
grittted.

There was a rush of feet in the corridor as
the crew ran for their stations. In minutes
the captain himself appeared. Lodar already
knew what to expect. He brushed Campora
aside after a dozen words.

“Get the gun crews set,” he told him
shortly.

“How about changing course?” the mate
demanded sullenly.

"I know what to do!” Lodar rapped. "Get
going!” His eyes narrowed angrily as he
watched Campora stamp out and slam the
door. Then abruptly he turned to prowl
nervously from control panel to magnaflux
and back again.

Ray said nothing. He was wondering
alertly just how this was going to affect the
girl. He hoped she’d forgotten. Under on-
slaught of Lodar’s driving energy human
lives were nothing. Even now the captain’s
dark eyes blazed with excitement, a savage
delight in the approaching danger.

The young navigator began to plot the
other ship’s course. It was curving in behind
them on the left. The intent was obvious;
to overtake from one side and drive the
Vulcan into a sheering curve. It would take
power to get away, lots of power!

Ray called McVane on the interphone,
breathed a sigh of relief as the engineer
promptly answered. “We’re running into
trouble. Get your teakettle going — fast,” he
ordered.

“Ay, ay.” McVane mumbled.

“Keep awake!” Ray hissed savagely. "If
we’re caught now it’ll mean life for us!”

"Take it easy, I’ll give ye power. If need
be,” McVane added morosely, "enough to
blow us all to hell!”

The captain was studying the magnaflux
when Ray turned.

"They’re cutting in.” His thick finger
traced a curve. The pursuer’s tactics were
obvious — to drive the Vulcan into an ever-
tightening spiral aided by his greater speed.

“Why don’t they, radio?” Ray glanced
at the silent receiver.

STORIES

"At this speed?” Lodar grunted. “No
chance! There’ll only be a few seconds of
contact.”

It was true. On any course, the two ships
would flash past each other with scant time
for talk. If the Vulcan was an innocent
trader it would haul to, if not it would
travel, or surrender. There was no chance
of surrender.

Lodar had too much at stake. He was
carrying a fortune back to Earth. His last
chance at a decent life. As for the crew,
most of them were wanted by the police in
half the cities of Earth. Their safety lay
in the outer planets or in space.

“We’ll take a chance.” Ray glanced at
Lodar for confirmation, then tapped the
magnaflux. “They’ve got more power, more
guns, and they’ll outrun us. We’ve got to
cut out.”

“Go ahead!” Lodar nodded tensely, like
a leashed hound scenting trouble. "Cam-
pora’ s got the gun crews ready.”

Ray hadn’t figured on blasting at the
Company ship. He had hoped for a swift
getaway. Still, this was no time for fine
distinctions. After all, he had joined the
Vulcan of his own free will. He couldn't
change his mind now. But, if he ever got
out of this . . .

He turned to the controls, concentrating
on his job.

The Benson Plates on the outer hull
shifted gratingly, turning to alter the drive.
The moan of the ether whorls pitched higher
as the Vulcan creaked to swing ponderously
on a new course. It made a huge figure S
curve, designed to pull it out of the threat-
ened spiral.

In seconds the proximity alarms shrilled.
As the ship cut closer to its pursuer Ray
tightened the turn till the Vulcan swung
sharply to right. There was a rattle of sound
as loose objects spilled over the decks.

The other ship was on the ordinary visi-
screen now, a black streak that danced to
one side of the Vulcan. Under his feet, Ray
could feel the jarring thrust of McVane's
converters, he could sense the leap of the
Vulcan as he closed in the last dregs of
power.

But still the other ship crept closer..

Ray shook his head silently at Lodar who
stood at the interphone. The captain glanced

83

THE SUN-DEATH

hastily at the visiscreen, turned back to his
mouthpiece.

"Got the range, Carnpora?” He leaned
forward, hawklike. "Now!” he bellowed.

The Vulcan shook as the broadside was
fired and the thrusting drive faltered while
power surged to the weapons.

It was a miss. Lodar swore.

"Fire at will,” he yelled, slamming down
the phone. He hurried to the visiscreen.

T HE other ship had shifted course to
follow them, though it was still abeam,
still trying to drive them into a spiral. Ray
swung the Vulcan again, cutting danger-
ously close. The dot on die visiscreen swelled
and centered on the beam again.

Campora’s crew were firing intermittently.
A shot exploded on the Company ship’s
hull, a spray of melted steel that flashed and
was gone.

"We disabled them!” Lodar exulted.

The odier ship was losing way, still hold-
ing its course, but slowing. Then they flashed
by it. Ray felt relief. The other wasn’t badly
hurt. He’d get back to port.

And, in that moment, the Company ship
blasted with all its guns. The Vulcan rocked
under the blow of solid energy. A vast erup-
tion tore out a section of rear plating. The
Benson Drive quit.

Then they were out of range.

Lodar was on the interphone. "Get on
that damage!” he roared. "Campora, keep
those guns ready. McVane! Hello, Mc-
Vane!” He slammed down the instrument.
"Some day I’ll kill that McVane with my
own hands!”

"Maybe he’s hurt,” Ray snapped.

Lodar grunted and picked up the phone
again. "Hello, Williams, get a first aid crew
out and look for casualties.”

He turned to pace the floor, aroused,
thirsting now for action. Up and down, up
and down, as if the pent up energy flamed
within him.

For the present the engagement was over.
Both ships were damaged. They would drift
thousands of miles apart before either could
resume flight. At least the Vulcan was fairly
safe. And space was a vast hiding place.

"They’ll never take us now,” Ray said,
trying to divert Lodar’s ceaseless activity.
The man positively burned with energy.

"Not alive, anyway!” The captain turned.
"Not for their brand of justice! You know
why I was cashiered from the Earth Fleet?
I was an upstart. I didn’t belong to the right
Clique. So when someone stole the club
funds they refused to hold a trial. Sure,
they just asked me quietly to resign so as
to avoid a scandal.” He ground his teeth.
"I was no thief!”

• "That’s when my wife left me,” he added
flatly. "Can you expect justice from scum
like that?” He glared. "Take all you can,
my boy, and die like a man when the time
comes!”

It was the same old story Ray had heard
a dozen times, and he was sick of it. Also
he was sick of Lodar’s ceaseless pacing. The
fight had left the man wound up like a
spring!

"I’ll go look things over.” Ray turned to
the exit without waiting for the other’s
approval.

The corridor was strangely silent now that
the vast throb of the converters no longer
boomed along it. There was a dim clatter
of men working in the after section of the
ship, but Ray turned to the mid-section well
and slid down to the engine room.

The auxiliary generator was whining
briskly, but the main converters were in
bad shape. Blue, acrid smoke poured from
the inspection plates, hazed in the glaring
lamplight, and there was a stinging odor of
extinguisher gases.

McVane was lying on the metal floor.

Ray dragged him to the well and put him
on the elevator. The engineer wasn’t badly
hurt, only a nasty cut on the head. In the
upper passage he halted Williams and sev-
eral of the crew.

"Where’s your first aid kit?” he de-
manded.

"Sorry, Sir.” Williams grinned. "Captain
ordered us on another job. The kit’s aft.”

Swearing, Ray hurried to the after section
and retrieved the medical supplies. Back in
the corridor, he decided to let the girl look
after McVane. She might as well be of some
use.

He dragged McVane to the cabin and
unlocked the door.

The girl inside almost bowled him over
in a frantic attempt to escape.

"Here, quiet down!” He held the strug-

PLANET STORIES

84

gling figure, enjoying a brief moment of her
nearness. "The scrap is over. You’re perfect-
ly safe.”

"I don’t care about that!” the girl flamed.
"What are you doing to my friends?”

"Nothing.” He turned her loose reluctant-
ly. "Here, take care of McVane.” Watching
her cautiously, he dragged the engineer in-
side.

"Let me out!” She tried to squeeze past
him. "They’re doing awful things!”

"Calm down.” He frowned uneasily.
"You look after McVane. I’ll take a look at
your friends.”

Despite her protests he locked her in
again, then impatiently hurried to the well
to slide down and turn into the hold.

Six of the crew were clustered by the
cage which held the Mutes.

"What — ’’ Then he saw what had hap-
pened. The sight made him sick.

The Mutes lay in grotesque heaps. Dead.
They had been rayed!

"Who ordered this?” he demanded thick-
ly. His mouth felt dry. His stomach was
tying itself into knots.

Williams’ swarthy face turned his- way.
"Campora said it was the captain’s orders.”
The man spat deliberately. “A damned
good idea, too, unloading them!”

IV

A BRUPTLY Ray turned and ran for the
upper deck. He burst into the control
room.

Lodar turned from the chart file. The
captain’s face was white. His eyes burned
starkly.

"So — you know they’re dead.” His voice
was expressionless. "Are they any worse off
dead than in a zoo?”

"You ordered those Mutes killed!”

Lodar made a hopeless gesture. "If we’re
intercepted, and have to fight, we’ll all be
killed, including the Mutes. So we get rid
of them. We’re clean, we go to Earth!”
"Cold-blooded murder!” Ray gritted. "A
cowardly — ”

"Stop it!” Lodar’s voice cracked. "They’re
not human. Getting hysterical won’t bring
them back. Forget it. We’re not playing
ring-around-the-rosy!”

“You’ll pay for this!” Rage at his own

helplessness almost gagged Ray. "When we
land on Earth I’m going to have you hunted
down like a dog!”

“It takes evidence to hang a man,” The
captain chuckled mirthlessly. "Do you
think I’d willingly jettison a valuable cargo?
Well be drifting for a week, at the mercy
of any patrol ship that comes along. I had
to do it."

A sudden thought iced Ray’s boiling
emotions.

Ellenor! He’d have to watch out for the
girl. _

With the Mutes gone, Lodar would
have to reckon with the girl.

Ray turned to the door. He had to get
away from Lodar before he was tempted to
shoot the man!

"You and I are through, Lodar.” He
tried to keep his voice steady, to bottle up
his fury. He’d need all his wits to get out
of this mess! His former grudge against the
Company, against Earth justice, was childish
and futile. He had been a brainless fool to
fall for die romance, the swashbuckling air
of the Vulcan. “I’ll work with you till we
land,” he said through clenched teeth.
"After that we’re through!”

He slammed the door behind him. He
•wanted to get as far away from Lodar as
possible, to the rear of the ship, where a re-
pair crew was blasphemously patching the
hull.

Several space-suited figures were outside,
welding the plates, while others, inside,
used plastic matting to save die air. Jenkins
was in command.

"Where are we now, Mr. Burk?” he
asked Ray.

"About halfway to Earth.” Ray tried to
sound normal.

“Is the captain still insisting on going
ahead?”

Ray nodded, dislike of the other welling
in him.

"Looky.” Jenkins drew him to one side.
"The men don’t like the idea, see, of going
to Earth. Most of us skipped out to space
for a good reason, see?”

Ray nodded again, and his lips tightened
impatiently. Jenkins was a bully.

“Well, sir, maybe you could persuade the
captain to change his mind, huh? We don’t
want trouble.”

85

THE SUN DEATH

"All right, I’ll see.” Ray started to turn
away.

"Campora tried to tell the captain.” Jen-
kins’ grimy paw rested on Ray’s arm, while
he peered at him through his glasses. "But
Lodar don’t like Campora, see?”

Ray had paused despite his loathing for
the man.

"Sure.” Jenkins moved closer. "Campora
knifed a guy just before he skipped Earth.
It was his second offense. Don’t let on I
told you.” He looked anxious. "I was just
trying to help, see?”

"Yes.” Ray turned away disgustedly. "I’ll
talk to Lodar.”

He was beginning to hate every man
aboard the Vulcan. That wasn’t good. It
was a sign of space hysteria. He’d have to
guard against such things.

Vigilance was the only safety factor.

Stay out in space too long and you begin
to brood. Worse still if you are psychologi-
cally able to stick it out long enough, you
become infected with the deadly space rays
that burn you up with febrile energy. Or
you go batty with claustrophobia.

And they had all been out too long. They
were reckless and unstable. He must get
Ellenor away safely if it was the last thing
he ever did.

Before the day period was over he went
to see the girl, dreading to face her with tire
news of the Mutes’ slaying. But she already
knew.

"You needn’t tell me.” Her brown eyes
were dazed with pain. *'I know. They are
dead.”

What was there to say? That he would
have saved them if he could? That he was
sorry? Furious at Lodar? They were only
fine words. He turned silently to the bunk
where McVane lay asleep, his gray head
swatlred in bandages.

"He’s all right,” Ellenor said. "He lost a
lot of blood, but I got the cook to bring
some food. He ate it.”

Ray turned back to her. He took her arm
and led her to a chair, aware once more of
that tingle of pleasure at the touch of her.

"I’ll do what I can to help you,” he said
earnestly. "But you’ve got to promise Lodar
that you’ll keep quiet If you don’t I’m
afraid he’ll — ”

"I’m not afraid!" Her red lips curled.

She had parted the long, dark hair in two
braids, which she was now tugging as if for
emphasis. "If you are my friend — ”

"I am,” he interrupted swiftly. "God
knows I’m sorry enough to be tangled up in
this outfit! But it’ll take more than just — ”

The door opened and Lodar walked in.
He glanced suspiciously at the girl, then
took a look at McVane. Evidently satisfied,
he straightened up.

"I saw tire latch open and wondered if
the girl was still safe.” His dark glance
rested impassively on her. "Have you de-
cided to be sensible?”

"Sure she has,” Ray said quickly.

“You can’t frighten me!” The girl’s dark
eyes were unquailing before Lodar’ s. Her
voice rose. "It’s you who is afraid, you mur-
derer! No matter how you strive — ”

"Shut up!” Lodar said.

"You’ll never see Earth!” she ended reck-
lessly.

Lodar spun on his heels and stalked out

"You idiot!” Ray hissed, then hurried
after Lodar. She would drive fee man to
drastic action in spite of all effort to save
her silly little neck! As he locked fee door,
Lodar eyed him curiously.

"Quite the spitfire, isn’t she?” he re-
marked mildly.

Ray wondered if he meant just feat or if
he was covering up a consuming rage. He
was still wondering about it as he uneasily
went to his own cabin. Of one thing he was
sure, that Lodar would save his own skin at
any cost!

That thought kept him tossing on his
bunk long after he’d snapped off the light.
He could hear the captain’s restless move-
ments in his cabin next door. He could hear
the sounds of the Number Three- repair
crew, his ears were straining for the hum of
fee converters.

There were many noises on fee Vulcan,
softer and more furtive. The stir of men
off duty, the murmur of voices. Uneasy
speculations.

Opposition to Lodar’ s course seemed a
material thing, a tangible force distilled of
fear. Like a cross current feat moved deeply.
Ray scowled at fee dark ceiling of his cabin.
Of course, it was only imagination. The
unusual silences. The cessation of driving
power on the Vulcan. These were playing

8S PLANET

tricks with his ears. The Vulcan was drift-
ing, slowly curving off course toward the
sun.

M cVANE was supervising repairs on his
machines. He had moaned about feel-
ing sick, but Lodar had refused to listen to
his pleas. For one tiring, they had drifted
two days now and the Vulcan had inevitably
expended its momentum against the solar
pull. It had begun the long fall sunward.
And, beside the threat of being broiled,
there was the deadly danger of space rays.
They would burn up a man just as surely,
even though in a different way. So haste was
imperative.

It might take a week to repair the main
converters. The insulation was badly charred
on the stator coils. Several were burned out
completely. So McVane was put to work.

The rattle of chain hoists and hiss of arc
welder echoed hollowly through the drift-
ing ship. Even so, had it not been for the
comforting hum of the auxiliary generator
the silence would have been maddening.

. Ray had avoided seeing the girl since the
death of the Mutes. Probably she blamed
him as much as the others for their murder,
lumping him in a general category of black
infamy. And how could he prove to her that
he wasn’t like Lodar, Campora, and the
rest? Unless she could really sense thoughts,
as she hinted. It seemed preposterous, yet
she might have learned some such' thing
from the Mutes.

She might even know what Lodar was
thinking! Ray grinned at that. Even now the
captain was probably fuming like an angry
bull.

He was eating a huge meal when Ray
entered his cabin to give him a report. He
continued to ladle vast quantities of hash
while the young navigator outlined the
progress of repairs. Finally he threw down
his spoon and wiped his mouth.

"Those men are deliberately stalling on
the job!” he snarled.

Ray didn’t deny it. They’d both known k
all along.

"If you’d change your mind about head-
ing for Earth — ’’ Ray stopped. The dishes
jumped as Lodar banged the table.

"Give in to a bunch of lousy space scum?' 4
Lodar glared. "I know what they’re afraid

STORIES

of. Every one of them is a jailbird! But, by
Jupiter, I’m running this ship!”

"No one is running the ship right now,”
Ray said coldly. “The Vulcan is falling
faster every minute. Our distance from the
sun — ”

"I’ll talk to the swabs!” Lodar’s jaw
bulged as he pushed away his chair. "I’ll
beat out their brains if I have to!” He
jerked open the door, then stared out.
"What do you want?”

Campora was standing in the corridor. At
Lodar’s expression he fell back a pace, then
held his ground.

"The men asked me to represent them — ”

"Now, by hell!” Lodar roared. "I’ve had
enough! Are you a First Mate or a snivel-
ing messenger boy for the crew? Get out of
my way!”

"I want to warn you — ”

"Stand aside.” Lodar shoved the mate
back.

"Better listen to him.” Ray’s voice was
harsh. Lodar deserved all he got, but there
was no sense in stirring the Vulcan to a
charnal house of mob violence. He knew
only too well the temper of the crew after
two days of wracking tension.

“Listen to a coward like this?” Lodar
sneered savagely and pointed at Campora.
“He’s afraid for his own hide! But he
wasn’t scared to stick a knife in a man’s
back on Earth! Oh, no! But now he’s petri-
fied at the thought of a policeman. He’s
stirring up the crew. He’s a traitor to his
rating! ”

"You can’t handle men when your own
temper blows up!” Ray snapped. Lodar
should know that. He was an ex-fleet man.

Lodar jerked round, visibly struggling
for control. "I guess you’re right,” he ad-
mitted slowly, his first fury spent. He
turned to the mate, whose sallow face and
slitted eyes were full of venom. "So you’re
afraid of Earth and the police, the whole
kit and kaboodle of you. Well, we won’t
land there.”

Campora looked his utter disbelief.

"We’ll swing a thousand miles off Earth
and I’ll land in the escape boat. You can
go on to Mars, sell the Vulcan to pay off
die crew and yourself.” Lodar smiled grim-
ly. "Now get out of my way!”

As the captain strode down the corridor,

THE SUN -DEATH 87

Campora turned bitterly to the young navi-
gator.

"He’s lying, lie’s going to land on Earth.
Hie filthy double-crosser wants to pay us off
with a stolen ship, too!” Campora grabbed
Ray’s arms. "That escape boat is loaded
with his takings. Thinks we’re a bunch of
suckers to let him be the big shot on dear
old Earth! We’ll see about that!”

"You’re a fine officer!” Ray stared at the
mate.

V

I T WAS a mystery to him how campora
had ever won his position. Once upon a
time he must have had a lot of ambition,
because it took a lot of drive for a self-edu-
cated man like Campora to become an
officer. Perhaps the struggle had soured
him.

Ray knew how tough it 'was. He’d had
to fight his way, but — He stopped in mid-
thought. Actually, he was no better. They
were all in the same boat!

When Ray went aft a little later he found
the repair crew working furiously. Lodar
paced back and forth between the two main
converters, his fists clenched and eyes alert.
One of the crew lay sprawled in a corner.
A glance was enough. The man was dead.

Ray shrugged mentally. Lodar was within
his rights, as captain, to enforce his orders
even to this extent.

Nor did Lodar relax his driving vigilance
one whit as the hours dragged by. He
raged from crew to crew, hammering down
all sign of opposition, aflame with a single
purpose — to repair the ship and take it to
Earth. Anger, pride, or stubbornness — it
made no difference which drove him — his
mind was made up.

There was no turning him now.

"Til run the Vulcan where I wish if I
have to kill every man of you!” he raged.

Ray searched the crew’s quarters and re-
moved all likely weapons. He got a spare
key for McVane’s cabin and took it to the.
girl.

"Better lock yourself in,” he told her.
"There may be trouble!”

"I know.” Her dark eyes were serious.
"If you would only persuade the captain — ”
"Nothing doing!” Again he felt an im-

pulse to touch her, to hold her. He won-
dered if it sprang from his own mind or
hers — or was he just nuts? But her smile, at
least, sent a flood of warm relief coursing
through him as he left.

He turned to his own cabin.

As navigator, there was nothing at pres-
ent for him to do. It might be best for him
to get some rest while he could. He was
afraid to sleep, but long training had
taught him how to cat-nap. He relaxed,
keeping an ear trained for trouble.

The repair work must go on or the Vul-
can was lost, for the sun was perilously
close. Ray had been afraid to tell the crew
just how close, because the single escape
ship would hold only a fraction of them.

He must have fallen asleep, because he
was suddenly aware that the sound of work
had ceased. Instead he could hear the qua-
vering notes of McVane’s voice, singing
lugubriously. Plainly he was sad.

"I'd give a thousand years in hell in pain
.To see my Nelly once again!”

And drunk!

Ray jerked on his tunic and hurried out.

In the corridor he paused at Lodar’s
cabin and tried the door. It was locked. So,
Lodar had gone to bed, contemptuously cer-
tain that he’d licked the crew into shape.
Which meant that Campora should be in
charge.

But there was an air of unease, of im-
pending disaster, in the driveless ship. Per-
haps it was a result of McVane's doleful
song, but Ray found himself suddenly tense.

The ship was too quiet. No sound came
from below as he went to the well. Even
McVane had quit his lament. Momentarily
Ray was tempted to see if Ellenor was all
right. He decided against it, hurried along
the corridor to the crew’s quarters, aft.

As soon as he stepped inside the mess
room, suspicion froze him. At his step the
huddle of men had suddenly broken. The
faces which turned his way all wore the
same tense look.

It was time for the payoff!

T HERE would be no more talk. Their
faces told him that.

Jenkins peered at Ray through his glasses.

88

PLANET STORIES

Without preamble, he demanded, "Are you
in with us or Lodar?”

It was a ridiculous question. All of Ray’s
training had conditioned him to meet such
emergency in only one way. Right or wrong,
there was only one answer.

He leaped back through the door and
slammed it, then swung the emergency latch
and spun the sealing wheel. It would hold
them for a while — till they burned it down.

He dashed for the central well, slid down
the pole in a mad spiral, and jumped for
the engine room. McVane was alone at his
desk, a shrunken figure in the glaring
lights, his head slumped dowm on his chest.

Ray kicked the chair from under him
and hauled him erect. "Get to the control
room!” he panted. ,

McVane’s lean hand closed on his bottle,
then his feet were dragging as Ray hauled
him to the well. His head wobbled as he
took up the song again.

"She’s gone and never will I see
My sweetheart, dear to me.”

"You fool!” Ray shook him violently.
"There’s mutiny! Up, quick!” He propelled
the smaller man up the stairs. In the main
corridor he stopped at the girl’s cabin.

"Here.” He shook McVane again, then
handed him the keys. "Get that girl to the
control room.”

While McVane fumbled at the lock Ray
hammered on Lodar’s cabin. It was an age
before the captain appeared. His dark eyes
took in McVane and the girl, then swept
back to Ray.

"Trouble, eh?” Without waiting to hear
more he reached for his gun and joined
them.

It was vital to hold the front of the ship.
In any other section they would be merely
prisoners. Lodar ran swiftly past McVane
and the girl, while Ray brought up the rear,
alert for attack.

So Lodar was first to enter the control
room.

Ray didn’t see what happened, but a mo-
ment later came the zing of ray guns, a
scream. Campora stumbled from the room.
He ran past Ray, still screaming, headed aft,
waving an arm which was blasted to a
stump.

Ray went on, gritting his teeth.

"Didn’t expect us so soon,” Lodar said
grimly as they gathered in the control room.
"He figured on holding this place, but he
got too excited!” He pointed to the splatter
of burned metal where Campora’ s shot had
missed him.

He turned to McVane who was looking
sick. "Here, take this gun and stand by.”
Then, as he shoved the weapon in the
other’s shaking hand, "We’ll jump ’em be-
fore they organize.” He faced Ray. "Com-
ing?”

Ray nodded grimly. He was playing a
travesty of an officer’s duty, but it was the
only way.

The two went down the passage, peering
into cabins as they headed for the well.
Here Lodar slammed down the fire hatch,
thus blocking off the lower deck. He had
just snapped the last wedge when Ray
heard the clang of metal aft, and the patter
of feet. The crew had burned out of their
prison.

"Let’s hold them here,” Ray said. "I took
their guns yesterday. ”

"Good!” Lodar stood beside him, legs
outspread.

But as the first man, Williams, appeared
and sighted Lodar, there was the vicious
zing of a ray gun. The wall beside Lodar
erupted sizzling metal as he ducked.

"So you took their guns!” he snarled,
firing at the same time as Ray.

With yells, their attackers retreated, blast-
ing wildly. The corridor filled with acid
smoke and red-hot metal. Half the lights
were gone, the rest were hazed by the stink-
ing fumes. The mutineers were firing blind-
ly from behind a corner, depending upon
mere volume rather than any sort of aiming.

"Back up!” Lodar gasped. "Campora
gave them all those weapons.”

They retreated to the control room and
bolted the door, while McVane and the girl
stared.

"We’re in a spot,” Lodar admitted.

"And we can thank you for it,” Ray
snapped. “This crew will have no more
compunction over killing us than they had
over bumping off those Mutes!”

"Well, now.” McVane shifted his feet
restlessly. "Let’s not squabble. Anyway,
’twas Campora persuaded the captain to get

8S

THE SUN -DEATH

rid of the Mutes.”

They all tensed at a sudden sound out-
side — metal dragging the floor and voices.
Then suddenly the smell of burning paint.

The door panel turned red, the paint
peeled off, and dropped to the deck. Within
seconds a hole blazed through.

Lodar aimed his gun at the opening and
fired. He grinned as a yelp sounded, then
moved beside the door to trigger several
bursts along the corridor beyond. There
were horrible yells, the scurry of retreat,
then silence. Lodar stooped to peer.

"Got four of ’em,” he announced.
"That’ll cool ’em off!”

He crossed swiftly to the chart case,
heaved it aside, and slid open a small hid-
den panel. He reached inside to close a
switch. "This’ll help too,” he added grimly.
"Gas!”

"What a monster!” the girl said.

L ODAR ignored her. He was looking at
McVane. The engineer had taken a
bottle from his pocket, was stretching his
scraggy neck to gurgle it.

"Can’t you stay sober?” With a stride
Lodar swept the bottle away and smashed it
on the deck.

"What for?” McVane slumped against
the wall.

Lodar raised his hands angrily, but El-
lenor moved swiftly and swung him away
from the groggy engineer.

"Let him alone!” she raged. "He doesn’t
care any more. You can’t beat that out of
him!”

Lodar’s eyes glittered. "You know too
much about everything,” he said tightly.

Her chin tilted defiantly. "I know that
you’ll never see Earth again!”

"Damn you!” He lashed out suddenly.
His slap sent her sprawling against the wall.

With a snarl Ray hurled himself at
Lodar. His fist slammed a shoulder as Lodar
spun to meet tire infuriated charge. A sec-
ond blow, that crunched Ray’s knuckles on
the other’s head, never even jarred the
larger man.

Growling, he reached out. His huge
hands closed on Ray’s neck, the thumbs dug
into his windpipe.

"You dumb fool!” Lodar’s clenched teeth
lay bare between tight drawn lips. Convul-

sively his strangling grip tightened.

Ray’s fist slammed the grinning lips, with
savage joy he felt the smash of teeth. He
hammered at Lodar’s face, beating it in
frenzied rage while his lungs strained for
air. His back jolted the wall and Lodar was
slamming his head on the plates.

His lungs were jerking, the room blurred
with pulsing darkness. He saw only Lodar’s
blazing eyes, felt the power of his viselike
grip. The man was made of steel, driven by
raw violence.

And, in that flashing moment, Ray
guessed Lodar’s secret, the why of his driv-
ing energy, cagelike pacings, and burning
eyes!

Space Rays! Ray heaved convulsively,
trying to break the strangling grip.

Lodar had been too long in space. The
days were killing him, burning him up in-
side. He would go on with roaring metabo-
lism, like an overdriven jet, till his heart
burst!

And that would be soon now. Lodar’s
compelling urge to return to Earth was the
instinct of a dying animal for its lair, to die
with its kind. Nothing would stop him,
Nothing except death!

The pounding in Ray’s head flashed
streams of light through the blackness. Only
faintly could he feel his own hands beating
for air.

Then suddenly his tortured lungs heaved,
sucking in life. The grinding dutch dropped
from his throat. For a moment he could
only gulp, rub his agonized neck. Then
slowly sight returned.

McVane stood holding a gun. There was
a foolish, startled look on his lined face as
he stared at Lodar. The captain, gritting his
teeth and leaning on the control board,
held a hand to his shoulder. It was a mass
of blood and rags.

"You — you fool!” Lodar swayed, starting
at the engineer. "You bleary-eyed little Sir
Galahad!”

The girl was pressing a cup of water to
Ray’s lips. He drank, still gagging, staring
at her bruised face. He was conscious of her
arm around him, of the pleasure her near-
ness lent. He shook his throbbing head.

McVane was speaking petulantly. "Let’s
— let’s have no more arguments.” The little
man’s eyes were pleading. “I had to do it.

SO PLANET

Lodar. And you’re the only real friend I
had!”

"Some friend!” Lodar ground his teeth
in pain, then grimaced as blood dripped
from the smashed gums. "Here, help me
patch up this shoulder.”

Obediently McVane hunted up bandages.
Lodar’s eyes were somber as the engineer
and Ellenor tied up his burned shoulder
and put the useless arm in a sling.

"I lost my temper,” he muttered at last.
"Forget it.”

He probably meant it for a declaration of
peace. Ray’s own fury had cooled now he
knew what lay behind the other’s violence.

After all, the girl’s words must have
stung Lodar to a hopeless frenzy. She had
blasted at his innermost longing to see
Earth for the last time. Deep in his own
heart he’d known all along that he would
die like a dog in space. Her words had
only drawn the searing truth from his own
subconscious hell.

They all jumped as the interphone
shrilled.

Ray switched on the speaker. There was a
medley of sound, smashing glass, shouts,
and laughter.

"They’ve got into McVane’s liquor.”
Lodar crossed the room painfully till he
stood beside Ray.

"Ay — and the gas didn’t stop them,”
the engineer added. "They plugged the
lines.”

Suddenly Jenkins’ voice cut shrilly above
the background din on the speaker. "Can
you hear me, Lodar?”

"I hear you.” Lodar’s eyes were slitted
with pain.

"Okay.” There was a fumbling sound.
"We’re going on to Mars. Take it or leave
it. You set the course and we’ll get your
damned engines going.”

"You can rot!”

"Better think it over, Captain. If you
monkey around too long, the boys will get
impatient. We’ll wreck the engines!”

"You wreck those engines and none of
you will see Mars or any other place,” Lodar
said heavily. “There’s only one escape boat
and the only way to it is through this con-
trol room. I’ll leave you stranded!”

Jenkins’ laughter rattled the speaker.
"We’ll shoot you down with the broadsides

STORIES

if you try!” There was a rustling, then,
"Hang on, Lodar, a friend of yours wants
to talk!”

VI

T HERE was a hiss of breath, then Cam-
pora’s voice cut in. The low tones were
shaken by fury. "I’ll be waiting, Lodar. No
matter where we land, I’ll kill you!” His
voice rose higher. "So help me, Lodar, if I
have to burn while I do it, I’ll kill you!”

His voice had cracked hysterically while a
shout of approval from the others welled
over the receiver.

Lodar snapped off the speaker. "I
should have burned off both his arms!” he
rumbled. He went to the medical kit and
took another pain killer.

If there had been any chance of talking
Lodar into a compromise Ray would have
tried, but he knew it was useless. Lodar was
hag-ridden by that compulsion to head for
Earth. Like a dying elephant he was blind
to all else. If necessary, the death of the
Vulcan would be his swan song.

As for the crew, liquor had flamed their
hatred of the captain beyond all reason.
Campora would certainly never back down
now. Nor would it do any good to tell them
of their peril from the sun. They’d think
he was lying!

Had there been time, there was air and
food enough for a siege, but tire sun was too
close now. A lengthy deadlock would be
fatal.

The only other solution was to flee on the
escape ship. Leave the crew to their doom.
Ray tried not to think what that would be
like — the slow roasting to death for the
crew. But, even as the thought kept recur-
ring, he knew escape that way was hopeless.
As soon as the escape boat took off the crew
would blast it with the broadside guns. Any-
thing within miles of their blast would be
shriveled!

Nor did Ray like the way in which Mc-
Vane and Lodar were now whispering on
the other side of the room.

Lodar had unearthed a bottle of Terran
Whiskey in the emergency kit and had
given it to McVane. They’d had a drink to-
gether. A peace offering. Now the engineer
was adjusting Lodar’s bandages, whisper-

91

THE SUN -DEATH

ing in urgent tones.

The captain’s eyes, pin-pointed with pain,
rested somberly on Ray, then shifted as the
young navigator returned the stare. Lodar
muttered something, his expression setting
purposefully. As he stood up, twisting his
lips, Ray moved closer to the girl.

He knew Lodar well enough to expect
anything. And McVane, after all, was
Lodar’s man. They’d traveled together too
long to split in a pinch.

As the two now crossed the room toward
him Ray’s hand closed on his gun. At the
suspicious move, Lodar’s eyes gleamed sar-
donically.

"Mac and I were talking it over,” he said.
"Even if we lick the crew there’s no time
left to repair the Vulcan. She’s going to take
the sun-dive.”

Ray nodded silently. Ellenor’s hand was
resting on his gun arm and it bothered him.
He tried to shake her off, but she seemed
intent on holding onto him. At any other
time he would have been thrilled, but not
now.

Lodar went on carefully. The escape boat
would hold all four of them but it couldn’t
make a getaway. Their only alternative was
a diversion.

"Two of us stay on the Vulcan and en-
gage the crew,” Lodar concluded. "The
other two get away.”

Tire proposal was an obvious solution,
but, coming from Lodar, it could hide black
treachery. The captain’s overwhelming de-
sire to see Earth again had already precipi-
tated disaster. The man was blind to all but
the one great yearning.

"Ellenor wouldn’t be any good in a
scrap,” Ray countered slowly, trying to find
a hitch in the plan. "She takes off with one
of us.”

Lodar argued bitterly. The girl had given
enough trouble, she rated no better break
than the rest. The lucky ones should be
chosen by chance, and chance alone.

Ray flatly refused to budge.

When Ellenor tried to enter the argument
ft deteriorated into a wrangle between the
captain and herself. By this time McVane
had almost reached the singing stage again,
plainly endeavoring to drown his fright
now that the chips were down. Finally the
girl took his bottle from him.

"All right!” Lodar growled at last. "I’m
in no shape to argue forever. One of us
goes with the girl. Well choose by lot.”

H E TURNED to rummage in the emer-
gency kit again. "Ah!” He found a tin
of wooden matches and clumsily broke it
open, "We’ll use three of these. I’ll break
two, leave one whole. The man who picks
the whole one goes with the girl. Right?”
Ray frowned. He trusted neither Lodar
nor McVane, but there was no other way to
decide the issue unless they resorted to a
free-for-all.

“All right,” he agreed slowly. "Let El-
lenor hold the matches.”

Lodar sneered.

"Now wouldn’t that be nice for you!"’
he snarled. "I’ll hold them. I’m still giving
orders. Or do you want to argue about that,
too?” His hand rested on his gun belt.

Ray hesitated. It wasn’t so much that he
was afraid to die. Only he didn’t want to be
suckered into it. On the other hand, Lodar
had an equal right to be suspicious. "All
right,” he agreed slowly.

“Don’t do ft!” Ellenor protested sharply.
"There must be another way.” But no one
paid any attention.

Lodar turned his back and they heard
him break two of the matches. When he
faced them again there were three little
sticks in his large fist. Only the tops showed,.
He extended his arm to McVane. "You
first. It was your idea!”

McVane blinked, biting his lip, then
slowly chose one of the little bits of wood.
His hand closed over it, felt it blindly, then
he sat down licking his lips. As an after-
thought he reached for the bottle.

Lodar grunted, a satisfied grin distorted
his split lips.

"You next.” His black eyes burned on
Ray.

The younger man took one of the two re-
maining matches. He exhaled sharply as he
drew out a whole one.

Lodar rasped an oath, threw the remain-
ing match across the room. "You win!” he
ground out.

Ray relaxed slowly. A faint surprise
tinged his relief. He had misjudged Lodar,
expecting him at the last moment to renege.

92 PLANET

Instead, the big man had merely turned to
McVane.

"So you and I are the hostages, eh, Mac?”
A grim smile lit his face, while his hand
rested briefly on the other’s narrow shoul-
der. "Come on, let’s get going.”

The three men prepared the escape boat.
As they loaded the little ship with extra
provisions, Ray was alert for treachery, but
the captain seemed to have taken his fate
philosophically. He even tried to cheer up
McVane, though his heavy witticisms only
made the little man look sadder.

"Get that girl in,” he growled at last.

Ellenor paused briefly as she entered the
escape port. Her eyes sought Lodar’s. "I’m
sorry about the things I said,” she offered
gently. "I — ”

"Go on, get in!” Lodar shoved her, then
turned to Ray. "You too. Get set for take-
off. When McVane and I tackle the crew
I’ll toss a signal bomb into the corridor.
You’ll hear it explode. Take off, fast!”

Ray nodded. He shook hands with Mc-
Vane, hesitated briefly, then offered his
hand to Lodar.

"Go on!” Lodar snarled. "Get out before
I get some sense and change my mind!”

Before Ray closed the inner lock, Mc-
Vane passed him an envelope. "Give it to
the girlie,” he muttered.

Inside the escape ship, Ray closed the
little hatch, then touched the emergency
button which swung open tire outer port on
the Vulcan’s hull. With the butt of his gun
he hammered a signal. They were ready.

Neither he nor Ellenor spoke as they
waited. The seconds dragged in silence ex-
cept for the sound of their breathing.

Suddenly a hollow boom resounded, fol-
lowed by the sharp rattle of metal.

"That’s it!” Ray gunned the little escape
ship clear.

They were out in space. The black shape
of the Vulcan swung behind them, dwin-
dling. It looked inert and ghostly. It looked
a dead ship, with no sign of the conflict that
was raging inside.

Ray turned the escape boat sharply left,
away from the sun, and set tire drive for
Earth. Behind them the Vulcan was fading
into blackness off to one side of Sol. Now
and then a pale gleam touched the dark
sides as it swung sluggishly.

STORIES

I T WAS all the escape ship could do to
gain steady acceleration against the
mighty pull behind them. For a while Ray
nursed the tiny converter along, till he was
sure the drive was winning. Then he joined
Ellenor in the cramped little mid-section.

Her brown hair was combed back, starkly
outlining the pale face. Her brown eyes
were large, underneath one of them was
the ugly bruise from Lodar’s hand.

"We’re loaded down with loot,” Ray
growled disgustedly. "Let’s hope there’s
grub enough to see us to Earth.”

He stared sharply as she remained hud-
dled silently. She was holding the envelope
which McVane had given. As he sat down
beside her she passed him a sheet of paper.
He recognized McVane’s untidy scrawl.

"Lodar always wanted to end in a blaze
of glory,” he read, "so this idea was O.K.
with him, too.” Ray stared, puzzled.

The girl raised her hand, showing him
the two matches that had been wrapped in
the note. They were both unbroken!

"Why,” Ray gasped, "that means — ”
"Lodar cheated,” she said softly.

Ray stared back at the Vulcan. His hand
was on tire controls, poised to turn back the
little ship. It was unthinkable to leave
Lodar now!

"It won’t do any good,” Ellenor said.
"Lodar’s life w T as spent anyway. But Mc-
Vane — ” Suddenly she was crying.

Ray’s arm was around her. "He was a
hesitant little hero, wasn’t he?” He smiled
gently down on the girl. They knew that
McVane had never loved life, was only
drinking himself to the grave, but a deep
sense of pity smote him.

Perhaps the fight inside tire Vulcan would
be over swiftly as Lodar had his moment
of glorious battle. Perhaps McVane would
die quite happily beside his friend.

It wouldn’t be entirely in vain.

Ray felt a new purpose in his own life.
Lodar’s wealth "would fight for the right of
the Mutes to life, and Ray would join El-
lenor, see that she was protected, helped in
the battle to come with the powers that
sought to enslave her Venus.

It seemed his fate was always to be inex-
tricably tangled with that of the Mutes.

Recommendations by the Board of Space

THE SUN -DEATH

Navigators, entered this 3rd day of
November, 2268.

1. That Navigator Ray Burk be severely

reprimanded for:

a. Failure to prevent a mutiny.

b. Failure to prevent the Vulcan’s, attack
on the Company Ship Elixir, which
was damaged.

2. That the wealth of Captain Lodar be

turned over to Ray Burk according to
the laws of salvage, but minus

a. 23% Federal Tax.

b. A fine of 10 credits assessed for each
Mute killed.

3. That Ray Burk be reinstated to rank of

Navigator, Unlimited.

4. That he be assigned the task of investi-

93

gating conditions on the planet, Venus.

3. That the young woman known as El-
lenor be transported freely to her home
on Venus.

Entered into record by Carter A. Pringle.

Reprimands (a) and (b) delivered. Wit-
ness, Carter A. Pringle.

Probate court to deliver funds of Lodar
( deceased).

per Carter A. Pringle.

Addendum: Section fve, (5) above, can-
celled as not necessary; Ellenor having
contracted for matrimony with Ray
Burk, Navigator Unlimited, and being
no longer a public charge.

Annotated by Carter A. Pringle

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Oh Mesmerist from Mimas!

By ROGER DEE

This gloriously gay smiley character; this astounding peace-
pervading creature from Saturn’s inner moon, was radiating
like a space beacon in a meteor shower when if landed on
Mars . * . it was madness , . . gargantuan madness

T HE Cargo Declarations mart at Areo-
polis spaceport was humming busily
when I walked in. A moment later it
was as quiet as a church and twice as atten-
tive.

The sudden hush that fell wasn’t out of
deference to me, though I’m pretty well
known through the odd corners of the
Solar System, but because of the Mimasan
smiley I carried in a ten-inch tungsten wire
cage under my arm. Nothing this side of

Saturn’s inner moon can lay down the
euphoric aura of . peace and brotherhood
that a smiley can, and this one was doing a
noble job of it. He was one of the first two
ever to hit Mars, young and healthy and
still unmated, and he was radiating like a
space beacon in a meteor shower.

"Hey, it’s Blaster Bill Bailey,” I heard s
trader — an Earthside homo by the sound
of him— say. "What’s the beautiful littks
item you brought back this time, Bill?"

9$

96 PLANET

They crowded around me, Earthies and
Eetees — Extraterrestrials — alike, all trying
to get closer to that lovely peace-be-on-you
euphoria. I looked them over carefully,
counting the house and estimating their
probable bids, and for the hundredth time
it struck me that the place was more like
a zoo than a mart for serious business.

Cargo Declarations is a regular Mecca for
Eetee traders from the outlands. I saw both
kinds of Martians, the cat-whiskered, man-
like, yellow city dwellers and their wilder,
little, brown baboon-faced cousins from the
red upland deserts; pink-and -white Venus-
ians glistening like four-foot snails under
the celloplast sheaths that kept them from
dehydrating in the dry Martian air; Cal-
listans teetering like scaly green sawhorses
on their four stiff-jointed legs and walking
stick tails; wooly blue tree men from Titan
and ponderous Europans rolling on the
little three-wheeled carts they used to carry
their barrel-bellied tonnage.

"It’s a smiley,” I told them, holding the
cage up so they could admire the soulful
little brute. "From Mimas, Saturn’s first
moon. His name is Joey and he is very
much for sale.”

Everybody wanted Joey, naturally. I'd
have wanted him myself if I hadn’t learned
from the Mimasan natives, who are as rare
as smileys and a damned sight less friendly,
that chewing khiff roots would immunize
me against his hypnotic aura. That aura
makes smileys remarkable even among
Eetees, so remarkable that nobody had ever
brought one in before. It’s their mating call,
a very practical gimmick evolved to attract
each other and at the same time protect
themselves from native predators while they
carry on their courtship. It works on any-
thing from swamp gnats to Syrtis Major
sand snakes, and it’s literally irresistible.

Joey looked something like a fist-sized
marmoset shaped out of pale blue smoke,
his body so insubstantial that you could see
the cage wires through and behind him. It
was hard to put a finger on the quality
unless you had learned the hard way, but
there was a weird incompleteness about him
that escaped definition. Smileys are para-
doxical little brutes. Unmated, they’re only
half material because they actually aren’t
complete entities. But when they mate —

STORIES

"Gleef?” Joey said plaintively, yearning
at the assorted faces around him and loving
every one of them.

That clinched it. "How much?” somebody
asked, and there was a general digging for
wallets and Eetee equivalents.

I had figured my price already, allowing
for dealers’ profits and transferral expenses.
On Earth Joey would be worth at least a
hundred thousand credits to psychomedic
clinics treating mental disorders ranging
from simple hypertension to paranoia. He
should net me twenty thousand, ten of
which would go to settle a grubstake lien
held by Martian Bankings against the
Amabelle, my little eighty-foot space tug.

The other ten would leave me knee-deep
in credit notes for a two week spree that
would begin at the Argonaut Club, which is
as far as any chunk-hopping asteroid pros-
pector ever plans.

“T7MRST let me point out,” I said, giving

x Joey’s aura time to soak in properly,
"that Joey is tire first smiley ever captured.”

Which was strictly true, though I didn’t
see fit to mention the second one, a female
named Cora' which I had left hidden in an
old abandoned oxygen reduction plant I
knew out in Syrtis Major. I had two good
reasons for that: they’d bring higher prices
if sold separately, and I wasn’t taking any
chances on their getting together before I
disposed of them. Anything could happen
if they did.

"Worth a hundred thousand on Earth,”
I said. "How much am I bid?”

But nobody made me an offer. I might
have known it. Some days you just can’t
turn an honest credit.

Joey’s euphoric appeal should have had
the traders scrambling for him, but I had
underestimated his effect. They wanted him,
sure, but the brotherly love he instilled in
them made every buyer, Earth homo or
Eetee, ashamed to jack up the price against
his neighbor.

We compromised finally by listing Joey
for proxy sale, and I took him out of Cargo
Declarations to clear the air. He would Be
safe in the Armabelle’s cabin because no one
who got close enough to steal him would
have the heart to do it, and I’d have time
while the bids rolled in to sample a pitcher

OH MESMERIST FROM MIMAS! 97

or two of yellow Martian skohl down at
the Argonaut Club.

Joey was safe enough, but I wasn’t. I
hadn’t walked more than forty yards from
the Annabelle after putting Joey away when
I bumped into Captain Giles of the space-
port police.

"Wait up,” the Captain said. "I’ll warn
you this time before it happens, Bailey. If
you start another riot at the Argonaut
Club—”

Captain Giles was a rail-thin six-footer
with a dour hatchet face burned to leather
by Martian sun and wind, a hard-boiled but
conscientious patrol officer who had missed
his calling. He should have been a mission-
ary, being as chaste as a Cosmicist monk
and twice as stern.

I heard variations of his ultimatum every
time I put down at Areopolis. But this time
I had the answer to it.

“Will you step over to the Annabelle
with me, Captain?” I asked. "I’d like your
opinion on the cargo I brought in.”

He went, glowering and suspicious. Sixty
feet from the Annabelle we walked into
Joey’s euphoric aura, and his grumbling was
shut off as if somebody had turned a spigot.

“I don’t understand this,” the Captain
said, giving me a saintly smile that would
have sent his hard-boiled crew into a mass
faint. But it’s really rather wonderful . . .
Let me beg you again, William, to shun
that disreputable Argonaut Club. Some
day—”

"I know,” I finished for him. "Some day
your patrolies will sweep me out of there
in small, unidentifiable fragments. A dirty

job.”

I left him there with his bright new smile
wearing strange creases in his hard hatchet
face and walked down from the landing

S »ron to the street. That was when I learned
at I wasn’t as safe as Joey.

The instant I set foot in the street a
couple of professional uglies closed in on
me, a sharp-faced Earth homo and a cat-
whiskered yellow Martie in bright Terran
clothing. The two of them were armed
with bell-mouthed freeze guns, and they
were bent on business.

I never had a chance. They ushered me
into a waiting sand-car and took away the
7 — PLANET — January

Quantrell blaster I wore buckled over my
coveralls.

"We hear you got a smiley for sale,
chunk-hopper,” the sharp homo said while
the Martie started the sand-car. "Well, we
got you a buyer for it.”

They didn’t really need the car except for
privacy. Our trip took us only half a block
down the street where we stepped out at
the last place I’d have expected to market
a smiley — at the palatial office building of
Solar Shipping, a billion-credit corporation
headed by one Hume Shanig, space-line
tycoon and crooked financier extraordinary,

I HAD heard plenty about Shanig, though
I’d never done business with him. He
had a finger in every financial pie on Mars
from import houses to the Argonaut Club,
which was directly across the street and
which he owned outright. Dealing with
Shanig, rumor said, was like stepping into
a Venusian boghole — easier to get into than
out of.

Shanig’s uglies chivvied me into a recep-
tion room that was all skylights and soft
rugs and shining saffa-wood furniture. A
big desk stood in the center. Behind the
desk sat Shanig’s secretary.

It was almost worth being kidnapped
to be able to stand and look at her. She
was a beauty, a tall clean-lined redhead with
all the curves a prodigal heredity ever prom-
ised a female of the species homo. And she
had a warm red mouth and clear green
eyes that matched her hair.

"Buzz the boss that we got his homo,
Cheryl,” the Earthie said. "And snap it up,
baby. The Chief is but eager about this
smiley deal.”

The girl gave him a curt green glare.
"Miss Trayne, to you,” she snapped. But
she pushed the buzzer on her desk, and a
rasping voice from her audiphone said that
we should come in.

I knew only one of die three men in the
office beyond. He was a little blond truckler
named Perry Acree who held a booking-
clerk’s berth at Cargo Declarations, and I
didn’t need to look twice at the smug com-
placence of his chicken-chinned face to
guess who had tipped Shanig about my
smiley.

The second was a fat, dignified homo

PLANET STORIES

38

with a dipped gray mustache and the delib-
erate look of a top-flight medic. The third
was Shanig himself.

Physically, the great man had seen better
days. He was small and old and wizened
and bald, and the creases in his sallow face
could have been carved with a kit of en-
graver’s tools. His scrawny neck hung in
slack wattles, and the hooked nose and hot
black eyes of him made him look like a dis-
sipated desert buzzard. But I wasn’t tempted
to sell him short for even in illness Shanig
had the air about him of a baited steel trap.
He was an empire builder, one of these
human dynamos who pile up fortunes and
then die of gastric ulcers before they can
spend their loot.

"I dislike bringing you here under duress,
Bailey,” Shanig said. He was trying to make
it smooth, but even so he barked like a
Syrtis Major jackal. "Dr. Humphrey will
explain my reasons for being so precipitate.”

The medic harumphed reluctantly and
fiddled with his mustache. Plainly he didn’t
like any part of it.

"Mr. Shanig,” he said, "suffers from a
chronic condition of extreme nervous ten-
sion, a result of the years of overstrain im-
posed upon him by his business enterprises.
I have prescribed rest and relaxation, but at
this late date Mr. Shanig is constitutionally
unable to pursue that course.

"He is, in a word, incapable of relaxing;
yet relax he must or collapse completely.
Sedatives are unsatisfactory, impairing the
mental processes. Mr. Shanig does not trust
hypnotherapy.

"As a consequence we find ourselves with
only one alternative — a happy chance result-
ing from your arrival at Areopolis with this,
ah, smiley.”

I got it then. At first glance it was a
neat enough idea; the catch as that Shanig
didn’t know his smileys. He couldn’t put
himself under Joey’s euphoric golden-rule
spell and still direct a big business.

And besides that I hadn’t gone through
the slimy hells of those Mimasan jungles to
rehabilitate a burned-out old credit-shark
like Hume Shanig. Joey belonged to hu-
manity, to the poor overwrought hyper-
tensive homos who really needed him.

"If you want my smiley to keep this old
goat from snapping his leash,” I said, "the

answer is no. Joey would quiet him down
like a country churchyard, sure, but — ”
Shanig cut me short by smacking a per-
emptory hand on his desk top.

"That will be all, Dr. Humphrey,” he
barked. "Get out.”

W HEN the medic had gone Shanig
turned on me. "I have no time to
waste in haggling, Bailey. How much do
you ask for this creature?”

I thought it over and it still read the
same.

More was at stake than the wasting of
Joey’s talents on a bad hat like Shanig.
There was the inevitable blowup that must
come later. When Shanig found out what
being too long under a smiley’s influence
could do to a homo with his financial re-
sponsibilities, there would be the devil to
pay for fair.

"I don’t want trouble,” I said, trying to
be diplomatic. "But I can’t sell Joey to you.
If you’d let me explain — ”

"You have a commitment against your
prospect ship, I believe,” Shanig ait in.
"An obligation commonly referred to as a
grubstake lien, is it not?”

"With Martian Bankings,” I admitted.
“It’s a couple of weeks overdue at the mo-
ment but Martian is a friendly outfit. They’ll
wait for their credits until I sell the smiley.”
I couldn’t be sure whether Shanig
laughed or barked.

"I anticipated your reluctance to sell so
I purchased your lien from Martian Bank-
ings two hours ago. I know your reputed
fondness for your ship, and I understand
too that a similar craft cannot be bought
for twice the amount of your financial
obligation.”

He had me cold. It was a dirty trick of
Martian’s to sell me out, but I could see
how it was when Shanig put the screws to
them.

“You are in no position to bargain with
me, you simple fool,” Shanig said, looking
more than ever like a dissipated buzzard. "I
shall make you one offer before claiming
forfeit — the cancellation of your debt plus
five thousand credits in cash.”

He shouldn’t have baited me with tire
Annabelle. I love that rusty old tub the
way some homos love their women. And

OH MESMERIST FROM MIMAS! 99

after being sandbagged with Shanig’s kind
of persuasion I began to figure that selling
Joey to him was as neat a revenge as I
could ask. He deserved it — plus.

"All right,” I said. "You’ve bought a
smiley.”

Shanig thumbed his buzzer and the red-
head came in from the reception office with
a legal-looking paper in her hand. She went
straight to Shanig’s desk, walking in a way
to make any homo’s pulse beat out of step,
but when she passed Perry Acree the two
of them exchanged a swift, secret look of
complete understanding that actually made
me flinch.

Sometimes I think I’ll never understand
women. Here was this gorgeous wench, five-
feet-ten and built like a hermit’s dream, and
what did she pick? An egregious little idiot
who —

"Sign here,” Shanig grunted. He fitted
the paper onto a desk pad and whipped it
toward me along with a stylus.

It was a simple enough contract release

f iving me full title to the Annabelle plus
ve thousand credits in exchange for uncon-
tested ownership to one male Mimasan
smiley answering to the name of Joey.

Something about the pad-and-stylus rou-
tine rang a warning bell at the back of my
mind but I was too mad to listen. I wrote
"William X. Bailey” in the proper blank
and the deed was done.

When Perry Acree and Shanig’s hired
homo signed as witnesses all of us stood up
but Shanig.

"That’s all,” Shanig snapped, pushing a
check for five thousand credits at me. "Get
out!”

I took the check and went out, so mad I
could feel my ears crisping. Entering the
reception room again, it didn’t soothe my
mangled ego any to get a disdainful once-
over from the redhead.

"I’m taking a week-end off with this
little item to see the sights,” I said, snap-
ping the check. "Like to come along for the
ride? There’s a little pleasure colony up on
Phobos that’s out of this universe, where
anything goes.”

"Not with you, you swamp-stained
wolf,” she snapped. When I waited, grin-
ning, she bit'her lip and her eyes shot green
sparks. "Beat it or I’ll buzz for Perry.”

I DIDN’T mind the brush-off but the idea
of her calling for Perry Acree to toss me
out fanned my slow burn to a blaze.

"That seed-sized cipher?” I scoffed.
"Why, for two centi-credits I’d — ”

Shanig’s door opened and Perry came out.
He added up the score in a blink and
jumped to the conclusion that I was waiting
to settle with him.

"Now look. Bill,” he began. "I couldn’t
help it if — ”

"That secret agent stunt of yours just cost
me five thousand credits, Acree,” I said,
cutting him short. "I think you’re going to
be as sorry as Shanig before this is over.”
He lost the little color he had. "I don’t
want trouble with you, Mr. Bailey! Cheryl,
will you — ”

The girl pushed her buzzer. Her eyes
dodged mine, and I could read her mind
like the back of a credit- note. She was mak-
ing allowances for Perry but it hurt to call
for help.

Shanig’s office door opened again and his
two uglies came out. Both of them had
freeze guns and the yellow Martie wore my
Quantrell blaster tucked into his belt, but
it was plain that they didn’t expect to need
them.

"Pley, take it easy!” Perry wailed, not
wanting any part of this. "That’s Blaster
Bill Bailey you jerks are — ”

They closed in, disregarding him, and I
cracked their heads together hard enough
to make their knees bend like rubber. Then
I took back my Quantrell and left them
holding each other up like a pair of skohl
addicts.

"You can phonovise me at the Argonaut
Club if you change your mind about that
weekend on Phobos,” I told the redhead.
"But don’t wait too long or this will have
gone the way of all credits.”

I tucked the check away and went out
with Perry Acree trailing apologetically at
my heels. Shanig had sent him to bring back
the smiley it seemed, so I let him tag along.
He left the Annabelle with Joey under his
arm and that mesmerized Sunday-services
look on his face, and I strolled down to
Martian Bankings with my check.

It wasn’t really a surprise to find that

100 PLANET

Shanig had stopped payment on it. What
did give me the devil of a turn, though, was
realizing that he must have double-dealt me
about the Annabelle, too. If he wouldn’t
honor a five-thousand-credit contract he’d
certainly balk at giving up a twenty-thou-
sand-credit ship.

I broke all sprint records back to the
spaceyards and slammed the Annabelle’s
port practically in the faces of Captain Giles
and a squad of patrolies who had been sent
by Shanig to secure his latest acquisition.

Giles and his crew were yelling blue mur-
der when I cut in the Annabelle’s jets. A
moment later they were racing like mad to
beat the apron-flash of the blastoff.

It was all my own fault, I told myself. I
should have suspected that desk-pad-and-
stylus snare of Shanig’ s — he had slipped a
telewriter plate under my contract release,
and when I signed it I signed another paper,
by remote control, in another office. A paper
that surrendered my smiley and also my
equity in the Annabelle,

All I had now was a worthless check and
a ship spaced in defiance of legal fore-
closure. I’d be lucky, I figured, if I didn’t
owe Shanig a few thousand credits into the
bargain.

I DIDN’T hit for open space, knowing
that Captain Giles would have a radar
spotting-net out for me. Instead I swung the
Annabelle eastward and whizzed over Syrtis
Major toward the abandoned oxygen-reduc-
tion plant where I had hidden Cora, my
other smiley. I needed a hideout while I fig-
ured out a campaign to clear myself, and
there was a flimsy old warehouse at the oxy-
plant that would screen the Annabelle
nicely.

I scouted the desert carefully before drift-
ing in for landing, and saw nothing but a
great desolate ocean of gritty red sand. Back
in the days when Earth was just beginning
to cool off that desert might have been a
landscape of sorts, but aeons of oxidation
had changed all that. It was nothing now
but a waste of powdered iron rust, sifted
fine by a million winds and patterned by the
feet of jackals.

The old reduction plant huddled in a
wide, shallow depression made in years past
,J *y the scooping and hauling of sand to the

STORIES

converters. It reminded me of the ghost
towns I had read of as a kid, before tele-
movies and stereo-spools replaced the old
historical novels carried over from the twen-
tieth century. It was never haunted by In-
dians and buffalo, but it had seen its share
of jackals and sand snakes, and the wild,
little, brown baboon-faced Marties of the
deserts had smashed all its windows when
the Earthies moved on.

Not many reduction plants were needed
on Mars any more. The first homos to come
had to wear atmosphere masks — a first-
water paradox, because the rusty red deserts
were full of good oxygen locked up in
simple ferrous oxide form — but they soon
changed that. When enough of them had
come they set up atom-powered reduction
plants by the hundreds, breaking the red
sand back to its primal elements of iron and
oxygen.

They used the iron in their first cities and
they let the oxygen go free. Before the Big
Jump there used to be arguments, I’ve
heard, to the effect that Earthies could never
live permanently on Mars because the air
was too thin and ogygen-poor. But unlock-
ing ogygen from the sand solved half the
problem, and the other half never existed.

In the .38 gravity of Mars, any physical
action requires only a fraction more than
one-third as much effort as it would require
on Earth. And only one-third as much oxy-
gen is needed to sustain that effort.

So a hundred years after Earthmen aban-
doned the Syrtis Major plant, I had a per-
fect place to lick my wounds in privacy. I
berthed the Annabelle in the old warehouse,
opened her up from bow to stern to let out
the stink of stale tobacco smoke and ma-
chine oil, and brought my second smiley out
of the dusty records vault where I had hid-
den her.

Cora was as affectionate as Joey and
twice as eager. She made an earnest effort
to hypnotize me with that euphoric mating
call of hers, but when the khiff root kept
me immune she settled down to staring
wistfully across the desert toward Areopolis
where Joey radiated back at her.

I broke out the emergency rations I lived
on while prospecting the asteroids or moon-
hopping, and sat down to think. I had to
clear myself with Captain Giles or I’d never

101

OH MESMERIST FROM MIMAS!

see Areopolis or the Argonaut Club again. I
had to break Shanig’s claim against the
Annabelle or I’d be an asteroid prospector
without a ship. In other words, a bum.

And besides that I’d have to settle with
Shanig for the slimy trick he had pulled on
me or I’d be laughed out of the System. For
some reason, considering that angle re-
minded me again of the unlikely old ro-
mances I’d read of the days when people
rode horses and steam engines and chivvied
buffalo around with red-hot stamping irons.
They prospected for the rare earths — gold
was a precious metal then, I think — and
they had to keep their reputations as he-men
intact or go down before the pellet guns of
their fellow homos.

It seemed to me that things hadn’t
changed so much, after all. I had some
small reputation of my own in the outlands,
and if I let a wizened little credit-shark like
Shanig beat me I was done for.

So I sat in front of the rickety old ware-
house and munched my E-rations and
thought about those things until finally,
being the honest type, I had to admit that
none of them mattered half as much as get-
ting back to Areopolis and making another
pitch at a streamlined redhead with scorn-
ful green eyes. There was still an outside
chance that Cheryl Trayne might have pho-
novised me at the Argonaut Bar about that
weekend on Phobos, and . . .

I was daydreaming about that when the
shutter-speed sunset of Mars flicked away
the day and left me sitting in darkness with
the Syrtis Major wind sharp and cold on
my face and the wild howling of desert
jackals in my ears.

HI

F OR three interminable days I sat around
the old oxy-plant, eating and sleeping
and thinking, and the monotony of it got
deadlier and deadlier. I couldn't even switch
on my communications equipment for the
news since Captain Giles and his lads might
be making spot patrols, and the localized
radiation of my receiving unit would be
enough to pinpoint me.

I had a fair idea of what went on with
Shanig, though. No homo cm operate after
his fashion without making enemies, and

the bigger his business tire more powerful
his enemies. Vigilance becomes the price of
existence, financially speaking, and it was on
that point that I figured Shanig had over-
reached himself.

All that was pure guesswork, of course,
until the afternoon of the third day. Then I
had unexpected confirmation of it, brought
by the last person on Mars I dreamed of
seeing.

I was in tire Annabelle’ s cabin with Cora
when the helicar settled in front of my
makeshift hangar. I came out on the double
with my Quantrell ready, and saw Cheryl
Trayne standing in the warehouse entrance.
The sun, hanging low on the desert’s rim,
outlined her tantalizingly against a blaze
of light and made her hair a shimmering
halo of burnished copper.

It was so wonderful to see her, but at the
same time I was a little disappointed. It had
been a pleasant possibility that she might
change her mind about that Phobos trip,
but to have her trade me down like this.

"How did you find me?" I demanded.
"And who’s with you?”

She gave me a child’s trusting smile, a
reversal of her old haughty brushoff that
gave me the devil of a jolt until I remem-
bered Cora in the Annabelle’ s cabin. Cheryl
was as deep under Cora’s spell now as she
must have Been under Joey’s before —
"Never mind that,” I said. "How did you
get away from Shanig’s smiley? Is Shanig
out of his trance, too?”

She looked puzzled, as if she were trying
to remember something tremendously im-
portant.

"I came alone,” she said. "I traced you
through Joey, after Mr. Shanig sent Perry
away with him. I remembered then how
Joey always faced toward the east when he
was quiet. He used to crouch for hours in
his cage when no one was near him and
stare in this direction. After he was gone it
came to me that he sensed another smiley
somewhere was calling to it. And if there
was another smiley on Mars . ,

"Then I had brought it and I’d be with
it,” I finished for her. "Neat enough. I only
hope no one else thought of it”

She gave me that trusting smile again,
and my conscience dealt me a sharp nudge.

I went over and gave her a khiff root.

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102

OH MESMERIST FROM MIMAS!

"Chew it,” I said. "Never mind the taste.
It’ll make you as good as new,”

She took it obediently, and a couple of
minutes later something like horror chased
the contentment out of her face. She stared
at me, her green eyes turning angry.

"You must have enjoyed seeing me like
that,” she said acidly. "It never occurred to
me that I’d fall under the other smiley’s in-
fluence if I found you or I’d never *have — ”
"You’d never have dared come at all,” I
said. "You’d have been afraid I’d bring up
that Phobos jaunt again, and you couldn’t
have said no with Cora around.”

She bit her lip in the way she had, and I
could see her admitting reluctantly that she
might just possibly have misjudged me.

"All right, you found me,” I said. "Now
give. What happened? How did Shanig get
rid of Joey and why did you hunt me down
if you’re still nursing a phobia against
Phobos?”

“OHANIG’S underofficials at Solar Ship-

0 ping rescued him,” she said. "They
couldn’t reach him at first because everyone
they sent fell under the smiley’s influence.
But they had to do something. Shanig was
like an irresponsible child, giving away
company holdings as well as his own. They
were so frantic that — ”

"I tried to warn him,” I pointed out. “He
turned cherub the instant Perry arrived with
Joey, didn’t he? Word of it got around in
nothing flat and his competitors, his ene-
mies, starting phonovising him right and
left They must have stood in line at the
telewrite stations to take his holdings and
Solar’s. A couple of days of that must have
practically ruined him and Solar Shipping
as well. How did they snap him out of it?”
"They phonovised him to step out on his
window balcony. When he came out to the
rail they knocked him off with a freeze gun
and caught him with a -net in the street be-
low. He almost went mad when he realized
what he had done.”

1 grinned for two reasons. I had been
right and Shanig had lost his shirt. It served
him right.

"So Shanig is starting from scratch again.
What line is he taking?”

For the first time she looked scared.

"A line you didn’t anticipate. Solar’s

103

stockholders have ordered him to recover
what he gave away, and he’s taking no
chances on losing what personal holdings
he has left. He tried to eliminate Perry and
me the minute he snapped back to normal,
and he’ll have you erased as soon as you're
taken.”

I stared at her. "That’s going pretty far,
even for Shanig. Why should he beam us
out?”

She gave me an exasperated look. "Be-
cause he’s afraid you might force Perry and
me to swear that he tricked you on your
contract release. It didn’t matter before
when he was powerful enough to smother
the charge, but he’s been so hard hit that
he can’t risk a reversal of that contract now.
Don’t you see? If you brought suit for repa-
rations and won it would rain him. The
only way Shanig can make himself safe is to
eliminate you as claimant or to get rid of
Perry and me as witnesses.”

It was a deadly sort of logic. I had ex-
pected Shanig to yell foul but I hadn’t
looked for a planet-wide homo hunt with
myself as the quarry.

“It’s up to us, then,” I said. "We’ll have
to settle Shanig first or he’ll get us as sure
as sin.”

She didn’t look so frightened now as
embarrassed.

"That’s why I came to you. We can keep
out of Shanig’s way, perhaps, but poor Perry
is trapped. Someone will have to get him
out of that horrible place before Shanig
reaches him.”

I gaped a little over that one. "What
horrible place? Where is Perry?”

"At the Argonaut Club,” she said. "As
soon as Shanig was himself again he photo-
vised Perry and ordered' him to take the
smiley there, partly to get Joey away and
partly to cut down breakage expense at the
Argonaut. Perry’s been there all day, associ-
ating with Eetee outlanders and drinking
skohl like any common spacehand. He’ll
drink himself to death before Shanig finds
a way to get to him, if we don’t hurry.”

I laughed until my face hurt. I couldn’t
help it. -The idea of Perry Acree drinking
himself blind in the Argonaut’s rowdy com-
pany was too much. Thinking about the
prayer-meeting hush that Joey must be lay-
ing over the toughest shot-slot in die System

PLANET STORIES

104

made it all the funnier until the real reason
for Cheryl’s hunting me down percolated
through my skull and sobered me up.

Her motive was enlightening, but not
flattering:

*<QO THAT’S why you risked your lus-

0 cious hide to find me,” I said. "To
talk me into dragging that idiot dwarf out
of the Argonaut. Am I right?”

She looked hopping mad and pleading
at the same time, which is quite a trick even
for a redhead.

"You can do it if anyone can. I checked
on your background this morning, and it
seems that — well, that you may not be the
windbag I thought you after all. One aster-
oid prospector told me that you—”

"Never believe a chunk-hopper,” I told
her. "They lie for fun or on principle, de-
pending on the circumstances. But I’m not
interested in Perry Acree. If he hadn't
tipped Shanig to my smiley none of this
would have happened. The Annabelle
would be clear of debt and I’d be in the
Argonaut instead of Perry. Why should I
risk my neck for that simpering sycophant?”

She had trouble telling me why. Having
to ask my help burned her plenty, and its
being Perry’s fault made it worse. She
turned pink and talked in circles, not meet-
ing my eye, and when I finally guessed how
she had meant to persuade me you could
have clubbed me down with a sand thistle.

"You really are sold on that puling
parasite,” I said. “Look, are you sure he’s
worth a weekend on Phobos?”

"Beast!” she cried, and slapped my face.

“Good enough,” I said when my ears
stopped ringing. "Faint heart never haggled
with fair hell-cat. Let’s go rescue your skohl-
swilling light of love.”

1 moved Cora’s little tungsten cage into
the helicar and Cheryl took us up. We
didn’t have to wait for darkness. The split-
second Martian twilight took care of that in
the wink of an eye.

The two-hour flight was almost pleasant.
The stars over our speeding helicar glittered
down like far, frosty eyes and die gritty red
ocean of desert under us lost its harshness
and took on a magic pattern of soft, shifting
shadows. Phobos paced us across the black
night sky like a swift silver morning-star,

and the little gray jackals crept out of their
dens and howled at her with all the pent-up
loneliness of a million, million years.

CheryL shivered at their keening, and the
thought that she could be as skittish as other
women gave me a little jolt of surprise.

"Mournful little beggars, aren’t they?” I
said. "I wonder what they’d think of Earth,
with its big yellow moon all night in the
sky?”

Cheryl didn’t answer, but it seemed to
me that she thawed out a little. It was al-
most cozy in the helicar after that until the
dusty neon haze of Areopolis ballooned up
out of the desert.

IV

W E CAME in low to avoid any radar
net the port patrol might have up, and
entered the sleeping city above the shadowy
warrens of the native district.

"You’ll have to be careful,” Cheryl
warned. "And quick. Shanig’s men will be
watching the Argonaut, and the police
won’t have forgotten you so soon.”

“I’ll be careful,” I said, knowing better
than she the sort of odds Shanig would
favor. "The next question is where do I find
you after I drag that case of arrested devel-
opment out of there?”

She gave me an address. "I took a room
there as soon as I realized that Shanig was
after me. I doubt that he’s been able to
trace me so soon.”

We dipped into an apartment house sec-
tion and Cheryl set the helicar down in a
night-quiet street. "Apartment Six-A,” she
said. And then, unexpectedly: "Take care
of yourself, Bill, please. Don’t do anything
rash!”

I patted her shoulder reassuringly. "You
may have to rescue me before the night is
over,” I told her. “Stand by your phono-
vision and be ready to bring Cora in a hurry
if I call you. I can’t risk taking her into the
Argonaut because of Joey, but I may need
her if I run afoul of Shanig. Got it?”

She nodded and gave me her phonovision
code. I got out of there and headed down
the street while she took the helicar up to
her apartment house roof landing.

It wasn’t far. Fifteen minutes of fast
walking through the back streets brought

105

OH MESMERIST FROM MIMAS!

me up a dark alley to the Argonaut’s side
entrance. The service door was locked, of
course, and as a consequence none of Sha-
nig’s uglies were guarding it.

I kicked it in and went through a dusty
corridor into the smoky, skohl-pungent bar-
room.

The instant I was inside I knew that
Cheryl had been right. Joey was there, and
he was radiating for all he was worth.
There was the spellbound crowd for proof
of that.

The Argonaut Club was known the
breadth of the System as the toughest dive
that ever sold a drunken rockethand a
pitcher of drugged skohl. I wound up there
every time I touched Mars, and I knew the
dump down to the latest ray-burn on its
dingy plastoid walls. You hit some pretty
rowdy shot-slots in the other spaceports, but
the Argonaut topped them all. The Argo-
naut was rough.

Ordinarily. Tonight it looked like a mis-
sionary’s picnic.

At the bar, Earthies sporting two-week
passage beards and Quantrell blasters buck-
ed over grimy rocketroom coveralls, rubbed
elbows with cat-whiskered yellow city Mar-
tians and their vicious little baboon-faced
cousins from the 'deserts. Woolly blue tree
men from Titan drank with squishy Venu-
sians and tentacled Ionians. I saw a couple
of Callistans in a corner, braced saw-horse-
fashion on their jointless legs and sticklike
tails, grinning happily while they frater-
nized with a pair of ponderous Europans.
The Europans, coy as two honeymooning
hippos under Joey’s spell, blubbered ami-
ably back and rolled in small polite circles
on their little three-wheeled carts.

Even, the bouncer was happy.

This last was an Earthie, a big, battered
homo named Husky Harrigan who ’tipped
the scales at two-fifty Earthweight and
looked like a tuskless Mercurian sandhog,
bristles and all. I had run into difficulties
with him before. He had the disposition of
a thwarted ape, wore brass knuckles the
way other men wore finger rings, and was
the prime reason for the Argonaut’s tough
reputation.

But tonight Harrigan was as gentle as a
dove, circulating through the crowd and
shaking hands with anything that had a

hand to shake.

I spotted Perry Acree at once. He was
sitting at a table with two Earthies and a
spiny pink Ganymedan, drinking skohl
straight from the pitcher and staring soul-
fully at nothing in particular. I made a bee-
line for his table but brought up short when
I heard Husky Harrigan roaring my name.

Force of habit made me set myself for
trouble, but under Joey’s spell, Harrigan
was everybody’s friend, even mine. He put
out a hairy paw and grinned like a croco-
dile, whinnying with joy and showing a set
of second-rate bridgework where somebody
had kicked out a handful of teeth.

"Hey, kids, it’s Blaster Bill Bailey!” he
bellowed. "C’mon and have fun, Willie.
First drink on the house!”

I nearly clipped him for that “Willie”
crack before I thought. Not that I had
scruples about clouting an oaf like Harrigan
when he was in no position to strike back.
I just couldn’t afford the delay. Captain
Giles’ patrolies might be along any minute.
And there was always Shanig.

S O I pushed past Harrigan and yanked
Perry to his feet.

“Cheryl’s waiting for you, Stupid,” I said.
“Snap to it, before I write you off and keep
the date myself.”

He grinned vacuously and came along
like a lamb.

The two patrolies looked in through the
swinging doors up front when Perry and I
were halfway to the service corridor. Their
sunburned faces lighted up when they saw
me, and they shoved the ’doors wider to
command the room with their bell-mouthed
freeze guns. Behind them on the street
stood their tandem air-scooter, lights on and
motor purring.

“You’re under arrest, Bailey,” one of
them called. He was a corporal, and it was
written all over him that he saw a ser-
geant’s rating coming for this night’s work.
“Come out of that!”

"I got a firmer grip on Perry’s collar.
"Come and get me,” I called back, know-
ing what would happen if they did.

They came in on the double with their
freeze guns ready — and halted, looking
sheepish, when the smiley’s aura got to
them.

PLANET STORIES

lag

"Aw, forget it,’’ the corporal said.
”You’re a good guy, Bailey. Go ahead. Go
anywhere you like.”

"Sure,” the other seconded. "Take our
air-scooter if you want. Need any extra
credits where you’re going?”

I headed for the service with Perry again
but we had waited too long. One of Shanig’s
uglies was standing in the doorway with a
foolish grin on his face, and I knew there
would be others waiting in the alley outside.
And those others wouldn’t be under Joey’s
influence.

So I cut for the front entrance instead,
dragging Perry like a bag of old laundry.
The patrolies’ air-scooter stood purring at
the curb. I draped Perry across it and
jumped for the operator’s seat, expecting to
be beamed down any second. I’d have made
it, too, but for Perry.

Perry had taken on a monumental load
of skohl during the day, and the instant he
was out of Joey’s influence the inflated little
ego of him demanded to be heard. He
scrambled off the air-scooter, swelled out his
size thirty-two chest and launched into an
old rocketroom ballad — a smutty saga list-
ing the personal iniquities of the Captain
Crow who led the first Mars flight just
before the turn of the century.

In nineteen hundred and ninety-two
A homo from Milwaukee
Warmed up his jets and —

I quieted him with a rabbit punch and
tossed him back on the air-scooter, but the
damage was done. I hit the control seat
again just as Shanig’s crew swarmed out of
the alley and surrounded us.

The air-scooter took off like a rocket
when I gave it the gun, plowing straight
through them. I hung on somehow, but
Perry wasn’t so lucky. He bounced once and
pitched off, square into the enemy’s hands.

When I looked back at the first street in-
tersection they had scooped him up and
were headed toward Solar Shipping in a
hurry. The sight reassured me a little. They
hadn’t blasted Perry on the spot, which
meant that they would probably hold him as
hostage until they got Cheryl as well. One
witness at large was as dangerous to Shanig
its two, and the chances were he wouldn't:
risk beaming out one unless he could be

sure of both.

I took the only course left, doubling the
air-scooter back and skimming toward Sha-
nig’s offices.

V

T HE way the situation added up reminded
me of the old historical thrillers I’d
read as a kid, most of them written in the
days -when our rough-and-ready ancestors
bought contraband skohl from underground
talk-gentlies and rival groups of uglies hi-
jinked each other with torpedoes. It was
something like a present-day telemovie grip-
per in a sense, only there wasn’t any Colo-
nel Super in this plot to lend me a hand.

Not that I wasted time looking for help.
I wasn’t used to it.

Outside the Solar Shipping building I
lifted the air-scooter and swooped up to the
balcony outside Shanig’s office windows.
There -wasn't time to set it down. I needed
every second to get inside before Shanig
could give tire alarm.

I jumped, and the air-scooter went on
without me into the night. It wouldn’t have
worked on Earth, but under Mars’ .38 grav-
ity an athletic homo has all the breaks. I
landed just inside the guard-rail and dived
through the balcony windows with a great
crashing of glass before Shanig could clap
a hand to the buzzer on his desk.

"Don’t touch it,” I said, and turned my
Quantrell on him.

"You!” Shanig barked. His face went sal-
lower than ever, but his hot black eyes
didn’t waver. "What do you want here?”
Down the corridor rose a sudden babel
of voices — Shanig’s crew returning with
their prize.

"They got Acree,” I said, heading for
the phonovision unit beside Shanig’s desk.
"But if you make a sound before they get
here you won’t be able to use him. Clear?”
The screen lit up when I touched the
switch, I punched the code Cheryl had given
me, and drew the first deep breath I’d had
for an hour when she looked out at me.

"Bring Cora over to Shanig’s office on the
double,” I said. "I’m going to need her but
quick!”

I cut her off without waiting for an an-
swer and punched another number. Captain

107

OH MESMERIST

Giles stared out at me this time, his weath-
ered hatched face clownish with astonish-
ment.

’’Get a crew of patrolies up to Shanig’s
offices,” I said. “And make it fast or there's
going to be more excitement here than you
can write off your records in a month.”

For the first time Shanig looked worried.
He saw no threat in Cheryl’s coming, not
knowing about my second smiley. But if
Captain Giles should arrive before Perry
could be moved —

The crew of uglies outside crossed me up
by buzzing Shanig’s audiphone. “We got
the little homo, Chief. Shall we bring him
in?”

Shanig, knowing that I couldn’t afford to
beam him at this stage of the game, tipped
them before I could stop him. "Take him
away. Bailey’s here!”

1 jumped for the door, hoping to grab
Perry before they got him away. I was too
late. They were already out of the recep-
tion office. All I saw of Perry Acree was
his heels.

That left us at stalemate. Shanig couldn’t
get away, and I couldn’t leave him un-
guarded to go after Perry. I was racking
my brain for the next move when it was
taken out of my hands.

The phonovision screen beside Shanig’s
desk lighted up and one of his uglies looked
out. “We got him where he won’t be found,
Chief. What next?”

And I let Shanig beat me to the jump
again. "The girl is coming here. Intercept
her!”

I made sure it wouldn’t happen again by
raying the phonovision unit to a heap of
smoking junk. Reflected heat from the flash
curled Shanig’s eyebrows, but he didn’t
flinch.

"That finishes you, Bailey,” he said. "My
men have Acree safe. They’ll have the girl
the instant she appears. Under the circum-
stances it should be quite entertaining to
watch you prove your position to the po-
lice.”

He had me cbld. Shanig could afford to
wait but I couldn’t.

I T TURNED out that Shanig’s handymen
didn’t share his confidence in the police.

I heard them getting set in the reception-

FROM MIMAS!

room corridor to block any dash 1 might
make. When I sneaked a look through the
balcony windows I caught a glimpse of an-
other group working like beavers in the
building across the alley. They were setting
up a tripod affair which I recognized at a
glance as a sleep-bomb catapult.

They had it charged to fire when Captain
Giles and his patrolies arrived. A babble of
confusion rose in the corridor again, and
the Captain’s harsh bellow silenced it like
a hand across the mouth. A moment later he
called through the doorway: "Stand fast,
Bailey. We’re coming in, and God help you
if you give us trouble!”

I stood fast, giving up any hope of •
Cheryl’s showing up in time. Having Cora
along should make it easy enough for her
to get into the building, but even Cora
couldn’t help if Captain Giles had already
dragged me away.

Giles came around Shanig’s desk toward
me, his hatchet face thunderous. “I’ve
warned you often enough, Bailey. This time
you’ve gone too far.”

Shanig treated himself to one of his
sandpaper chuckles. "He’ll probably give
you some wild story designed to clear him-
self, Captain. Don’t believe a word of it. I
trusted him, and you can see what it led to!”
The Captain was taking my Quantrell
blaster when my reprieve came. One of Sha-
nig’s uglies burst into the office with disaster
written all over him.

"Chief, the girl’s coming up in the lift
with another smiley! The whole lower floor
is hypnotized. She’d have got me too if the
lift hadn’t carried me out of reach!”

I’ll give Shanig credit for this — he
thought fast. He added up the score in a
flash and lunged across the desk, yelling for
his startled uglies to follow up. If Cheryl
got to us with the smiley the jig was up, and
he knew it.

He ripped the Quantrell blaster out of
Captain Giles’ hand and turned it on us.
He meant to wipe out tire lot and clear him-
self by laying the carnage to a battle be-
tween me and tire patrol.

It was close, but not close enough.

A sudden serenity wiped tire tension off
his face like chalk marks off a blackboard.
Captain Giles and his patrolies slacked off
with him, caught in tire same euphoric spell.

108

PLANET

They stood smiling and docile while
Cheryl Trayne strode in with Cora’s little
tungsten cage under her arm. If she had
looked good to me before, right then she
looked like a red-haired angel.

"Good girl,” I said, and took over from
there.

Shanig confessed on the spot to the slimy
deal he had pulled over me, and signed a
statement to that effect. He got on the re-
ception-room phonovision and ordered his
crew in the adjoining building to drop
everything and return Perry Acree at once.
He destroyed the bogus contract and took
back the elastic check he had given me, and
he enjoyed doing it. Cora, sensing Joey so
close in the Argonaut Bar across the street,
was working her mating call overtime.

“It was really inconsiderate of you to
swindle our young friend William," the
Captain said to Shanig. "Of course you
won’t object to serving a light sentence — say
five years — to make amends?”

"Certainly not,” Shanig said brightly,
beaming back at him. “My only regret is
that I must be separated from this adorable
creature. I love smileys.”

He went Over to the desk where Cheryl
had left Cora’s cage and fondled the little
brute through the wires. He played the very
devil in doing it, too. Somehow or other the
cage door had worked loose during the time
it had been banged about, and Shanig’s
fumbling hands slid it open.

Cora was out of the cage and through the
broken balcony windows in a smoky bluish
flash, whizzing like a bullet toward the
Argonaut Club and Joey.

VI

E VERYBODY snapped back to normal
with a roar. There was a frantic rush
of Shanig’s uglies trying to escape and of
Giles’ patrolies collaring them again. I
took no chances with Shanig. I turned my
Quantrell on him and held him fast.

Hell broke loose in the Argonaut then.
Even before the confusion quieted in Sha-
nig’s office we could hear the din that went
up across the street.

From our balcony windows we had a
grandstand view of the Argonaut’s more
timid patrons exploding out of the place

STORIES v

and tearing down the street, wobbling and
lurching each in his own outlandish fashion
from the assortment of Eetee drinks they
had taken aboard under Joey’s spell. The
rougher souls left inside had begun a battle
royal that raised a bedlam wilder than a
robot rooting section at a rocket-games sta-
dium.

“What is it!” Captain Giles yelled, gog-
gling at a barrel-bellied Europan who shot
out of the Argonaut with a pack of little
baboon-faced Marties harrying its speeding
cart from the rear. "What have you done
now?”

"Shanig has just ruined a forty-thousand-
credit investment for me,” I told him, "by
letting my pair of smileys get together. That
peace-be-on-you feeling they’ve been broad-
casting is a thing of the past. They feel just
the opposite now, and so will anyone who"
goes near them.”

I had to explain it twice before they got
it v

Mimasan smileys, as I’ve said before, are
weird little brutes. Unmated, their euphoric
mating calls attract them to each other and
at the same time protects them from native
predators. The catch is that when they mate
they coalesce, each complementing the in-
substantiality of the other to become a single
material entity.

And then, of course, there’s no further
need of their wistful, coaxing aura.

After that they hate everybody, being
newlyweds and not wanting to be disturbed,
so of course they radiate an exactly opposite
aura that guarantees them the privacy their
joint little heart craves. Nothing can come
near enough to interrupt them without be-
coming so rabidly angry that it has to rush
off somewhere else looking for something to
fight. But you see how it goes.

“And from the row going on in the Argo-
naut,” I finished, “I’d say that Joey and
Cora are definitely on their honeymoon.”

“You mean they’ll be like that always?”
Cheryl asked, wide-eyed. “That no one can
go near them without flying into a rage?”

"Not always,” I said glumly. “Just for
five years. After that they divide by fission
into a dozen or so baby smileys, and after
that the rat-race starts over again. The prog-
eny will be worth plenty, but who’s going
to stand guard over that amalgamated little

109

OH MESMERIST FROM MIMAS'

demon while it broadcasts hate and damna-
tion in every direction? I won’t, and there’s
not a homo in the System that would take
the job for love or — ”

The answer hit me like a thumb in the
eye, bang in the middle of a sentence.

"Captain Giles,” I said. "I’ve a sugges-
tion that ..."

The Captain got it on first bounce. For
the first time in history he laughed without
benefit of smiley.

It worked out neatly enough, at that. An
Areopolitan court decreed that Shanig, being
bound by the requirements of Martian law
to expiate his crimes with as little expense
to the polity as possible, should spend the
five years of his sentence guarding Joey-
Cora in a force-wall detention area to be set
up in Syrtis Major. By the time his term
ended my combination smiley would have
fissioned, Shanig would have paid his debt
to society and my investment would have
paid dividends.

It could have been worse. For the time
being I was out some forty thousand credits,
but I managed to salvage enough for a
moderate celebration by contracting with
the government to furnish khiff roots from
Mimas to keep Shanig from going berserk
under Joey-Cora’s influence.

The arrangement wasn’t too hard on
Shanig, even. The worst of it would be the
isolation — that, and the packs of Syrtis
Major jackals that would crowd around the
force-wall of nights and howl for his blood.

OOD enough,” I told Cheryl after the

\-T trial. "That leaves just one small de-
tail to be arranged. I’ll have to wangle an-
other loan from Martian Bankings.”

She raised a slim brow. "Loan? For a
grubstake?”

"For our weekend on Phobos,” I said.
"Remember?”

She laughed. "There’s another little de-
tail you overlooked, William. My ring size
is five and one-half.”

"Ring?” I said. "Oh, a ring . . . Would
you father have a Tellurian diamond, an
A-belt fire-opal, or — ”

"Nothing expensive,” she cut me off.
"Something simpler would be more appro-
priate, I think. Under the circumstances, I’d

suggest a plain gold band.”

I gaped at her like a swamp-guppy until
it seeped through my skull that she was in
dead earnest.

"Wait up,” I said. "What about Perry
Acree?”

She snapped her fingers. " That for Perry.
I thought I wanted the little creep until you
brought him back, but after that I couldn’t
bear the sight of him.”

"You mean,” I said, grasping at any
straw, "that you really want to be — ”

’ Married,” she said definitely. "First and
firmly, or no Phobos trips!”

"It wouldn’t last,” I argued. “Being an
A-belt prospector’s wife is no snap, Cheryl.
I’d be out in tire Annabelle for weeks on
end, slamming around in God knows what
kind of dangers. And one of these days I
wouldn’t come back at all and you’d be a
widow.”

"You wouldn’t be slamming around,”
she corrected me softly. "We would, Willie
dear. I’d be with you every minute.”

That did it. It was "Willie dear” already,
and she’d be with me every minute. Even in
port . . .

"I’ll have to give this some serious
drought,” I said. "Look, you wouldn’t want
us to plunge into a deal that wouldn’t work
out, would you?”

"Of course not,” she said with a demure
certainty that made my blood curdle. "But
this will work, Willie darling. Fll see to
that.”

I got out of there and went down to
Martian Bankings in the devil of a hurry.
They -were apologetic over selling my grub-
stake lien, and were glad to advance me a
few thousand credits against Joey-Cora’s
expectations.

For once I passed the Argonaut Club
without even looking back. A homo with a
skinful of skohl is short on resistance, and
resistance just then was what I needed most.

When I reached the blastoff aprons, the
Annabelle’ s rusty old hulk was the sweetest
sight I ever saw. I pointed her lovely,
meteor-dented nose at the sky and blasted
off, and the howling of her jets was like a
lullaby in my ears. The starry backdrop of
space ahead was like a cosmos-sized paint-
ing of all Creation, a master canvas done.

110 PLANET

' THE VIZIGRAPH

( Continued from page 3)

arc not overpriced for the worth of their contents.
(Mrs. Corby, how could you!) -

6. Lastly, PLANET is just as good, if not better,
than the other current publications. (Edwin Sigler —
please to join a little game of Russian Roulette as
soon as possible.)

NOTE TO HELEN HUBER: Thanks for tire in-
formation, gal. It was very interesting.

TO S. VERNON McDANIEL: Let’s get this
straight right now: I'm not a scientist, or even pre-
tend to be. My letter concerning Dr. Braun’s book
was just a quotation, and had nothing to do with my
own personal opinions on the matter of space flight.

I see no reason why a slower moving rocket couldn’t
leave the atmosphere belt if it had enough fuel.
Sorry, McDaniel. I’m unable to quote you Dr. Von
Braun’s calculations which show that a slower mov-
ing rocket must return to Earth, because I don’t
have his book at hand. Anyway, re: your Sept, letter
— you have some very good points there. Maybe some
of the other fen can answer your questions.

A NOTE TO THE FEN IN GENERAL: Since my
“Space Medicine” letter, I have obtained access to
certain information concerning space flight. This
source states that space flight has already been solved
and at least two trips to the Moon have been made
about 1944 in a special Circle-Wing plane. Water
was used as fuel — cracked into the two separate
gases, hydrogen and oxygen. A complicated process.
Also it says that Flying Saucers (or "Circle-Wing
planes”) are space ships which use a "Ghyt” motor.

Fans — if you have anything to say in Regard to
, — the preceding, please say it in the VIZIGRAPH.
Please don’t write to me personally. I realize that
there’ll be quite a few scoffers in the crowd, in refer-
ence to the mantioned statements. All I can say is go
ahead and scoff, but you won’t get anywhere. I may
be wrong — granted — but how do you know I’m not
right? Ha! You don’t.

Mavis Hartman,
Moon Maid

APPLES— GRAPES— LEMONS?

Box 89

Runnemede, N. J.

Dear Editor:

I'd like to say a few words to and in defense
of PLANET STORIES. This is in regard to the recent
trends that science-fiction is taking, i. e., the shift to
characterization in a story. Today the sories are being
plotted along lines of character chiefly. That has be-
come the fashion, but is it correct ? I think not.

A story can be plotted along three lines: (1)
Action can be featured (as PLANET STORIES does),
(2) Characterization can be featured, and (3) The
Setting can be featured. In almost all stories, only one
of these three things will be most prominent

It’s easy to see why. Writing a story that com-
pletely blends action, characterization, and setting is
almost impossible to do. In fact, if we are to take the
word of those who know a good deal about such
things, it has NEVER been done! It is true that there
have been occasions when it came close. The novel
ANNA KARENINA is an example, but such things
come very rarely. ( Although I’d like to say that for
my money OLD UGLY FACE by Talbot Mundy, with
its blend of unusually fine characterization, with its
magnificently portrayed setting of the Himalayas, and

STORIES

with its breath-stopping action, comes very close tc
being a great novel.)

Since few editors have any amount of great novel;
flung oh their desks at a constant rate they have had
to depend on something else. Their policies have
developed along certain lines and in certain ways.
They have learned to buy stories that were slanted to
one of the plot lines of action, characterization, and
setting (and combinations). If a great novel ever
dropped on their editorial desks it would probably
burst their brains or something equally pleasant (I’ve
no mercy for editors). They probably wouldn’t buy it,
because it would vary from their usual practices.
Writers know this, and, since they are not much dif-
ferent from normal people, they don’t write stories
that they know they won’t sell.

Characterization is the most important thing in a
story but it doesn’t have to dominate a story.

Since human beings are human beings they are
naturally most interested in human beings. When
they are reading of the adventures of a person they
have to be able to believe in that person; he has to
be enough like themselves or what they wish to be to
interest them (Or you can have reverse characteriza-
tion and make the "hero,” the central character, be
the exact opposite of what the reader is — that’ll hold
interest by having the reader hate him!). At any rate:
it’s someone you feel does or can exist.

PLANET STORIES characters have that kind of
characterization. Some of them are flat characters
(Like Paul in THE SLAVES OF VENUS: Paul had
one characteristic only: retribution, the force of good
conquering evil. To have brought in facts that he
liked to drink beer, hated blondes with poodle cuts,
and played a Venusian nose flute for relaxation
would have given him more personality, but would
have taken away his dramatic quality — would have
made him sort of ridiculous), some are rounded a
little, and some are perfectly round (and possess a
great many of the things that make up a person in
real life).

But it has yet to be proved whether a fully devel-
oped character is any more important than a flat char-
acter, or any better. The only characters you need are
those you can believe in.

So it comes down to this: No way of telling a
story is better than any other way. A character study
is no greater than an action tale or a setting story.
It’s like trying to compare apples, grapes and lemons
to each other. Each are good and wanted, but only
personal opinion can place one above the other.-

So keep PLANET STORIES in the action depart-
ment, but also try to make us feel the atmosphere of
another world and let us have characters that we be-
lieve in. But action comes first!

Cordially,

Dave Hammond

THE CORBY POUNCE!

55 Taylor Avenue,

East Keansburg, N. J.

Dear Editor:

In the September issue Gregg Calkins pounced on
me with all the outraged fury of an Inquisitioner
who has just discovered a suspected heretic. Ordi-
narily I wouldn't even bother answering him, but my
feminist ire has been aroused. Inconsistency (and I
deny that my letter was inconsistent) has never been
a female prerogative. Surprising as it may be to
young Mr. Calkins, the mighty male has been known
to have his inconsistent moments too.

As a collector of sorts I agree with Gregg that
mere money doesn't measure the worth of a collection

THE VIZI GRAPH 111

to the collector. Even my husband thinks it a little
silly of me to collect songs and music when I neither
own nor play any instrument. But then 1 wouldn't
dream of berating anyone else for not having a
similar collection, or even not wanting to have one,
as Gregg does.

About two years ago when I moved to my present
address, lack of space made it necessary for me to
get rid of many things, among them the greater part
of my book collection. I kept only those I couldn't
bear to part with. That took some doing because
I didn’t want to part with any at all. So you see,
Gregg, I am fully aware of the intangible worth of
a book. I merely stated, and I still do, that for me,
as a non-typical STF fan, most books in the STF-
fantasy field were over-priced. The typical active fan
collects anything and everything published in this
field regardless of its literary worth. This, IN MY
OPINION, is silly. Or perhaps, Gregg, you don’t
think women should have opinions contrary to those
of the incomparable male.

Theer are many books I would like to own, among
them the Willy Ley books on rockets and space travel,
but as a housewife and mother of three children I
have only a small personal allowance which must be
spread over as much reading matter as possible. This
fact limits me to magazines and pocket books. Sure
I am as Gregg scornfully calls me, "price-conscious.”
Who isn’t, these days?

Nor am I worried about fandom "outgrowing” me.
I have already said I was not a true "fan,” but a
"reader.”

Sincerely,

Mrs. Mary Corby

R2-CGV£RE0

1471 Marine Drive,
Bellingham, Washington

Dear Editor,

Anderson’s back on the cover of PS again after
a long and much lamented two month absence. Who
did the cover on the Sept, issue, anyway? Vestal?
Don’t you ever let A. Anderson go ... as PLANET
is just not itself without him. The babe on Nov. is
beautiful, the brawn is well painted, and the bem
is comic bookish but good. The background is
Anderson at his best.

Immediately after glancing at the cover, I de-
scended three flights of stairs to our cellar, below our
cellar, below our cellar, to show this ish to my pet
BEM (it can’t read but it loves the pics). For hours
it stared at the lead pic by Kelly Freas. Finally, I was
able to tear this ish away from it though and turn to
La Vizi.

After reading it, a horrible thought struck me . . .
not a single laugh . . . not one good old wisecrack.
Where are all the corny epistles that used to clutter

Vizi’s pages? The last Vizi was quite serious, even
a bit technical . . . gah-h-h-

Well, the next ish (Jan.) starts off a new year
again. May it be bigger and better for STF than even
’52 was.

Sincerely,

Naaman Peterson

Ed’s Note: Yep, Vestal rendered the Sept, cover.
And as for you Naaman, how horrible, not a single
wisecrack.

TERSE REPORT

464 — 19th St.,
Santa Monica,
California

Dear Ed.,

I’m speechless with joy over the Nov. issue of
PLANET. Finally, the cover has no sex, although the
femme’s mug is plastered all over the cover. Why,
oh why, can’t we have a cover without a female far
a change. I guess the cover is the only thing I didn’t
like. So solly.

AS IT WAS was good enough, but I think you
would have saved money if you bought it as a short.
My favorite this issue was CAPTAIN CHAOS with
the Pike illustration.

Happily yours,

Tom Piper

BELOW THE AFRICAN SKY

8 Paley Street,
Southernwood
East London
South Africa

Dear Editor,

I have just finished reading the May, 1952, issue
of PLANET and would like to give you my verdict
on it.

WAR MAID OF MARS gets my first vote. Thij
is the first time I have read a Poul Anderson story.
I hope to read many more of his in the future.
SPACE MEN ARE BORN comes second. I like the
way it started off:

O jewel of the eastern sky,

O mother of many things,

Bring home your sons to safety
From the stars to 'Saturn’s rings.

I have a request to make, please. Will one of your
gallant male readers send me the issue containing
SARGASSO OF LOST STARSHIPS as I have been
unable to obtain it over here. Us poor girls ’round
these parts can only buy space mags second hand as
the men folk grab them as soon as they reach the
bookshops. Hope someone can help me out

Mik Eileen Smith

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1

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1 WILL TRAIN YOU AT HOME
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J. E. SMITH has trained more men for
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M:rrtHinmfflT«iiiiiiiiiii g

America s Fast Growing Industry Offers You (2 ^

I TRAINED
THESE MEN

LOST JOB. NOW HAS OWN SHOP

I “Got laid off my machine shop
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it is picking up every week." — E.
I T. Slate, Corsicana, Texas.

GOOD JOB WITH STATION
“I am Broadcast Engineer at
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I have opened a Radio-TV serv-
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Bangley, Suffolk, Va.

S10 TO $15 WEEK SPARE TIME
“Four months after enrolling for
I NRI course, was able to serv-
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I to $15 a week spare time. Now
1 have full time Radio and
I Television business." — William
* Weyde, Brooklyn, New York.
SWITCHED TO TV SERVICING
“I recenty switched over from
studio work and am now holding
a position as service technician.

I am still with RCA, enjoying
my work more and more every
day.” — N. Ward, Ridgefield, N. J.

WANT YOUR OWN BUSINESS?

Let me show you how you can be your own
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own business with capital earned in spare

M[ time. Robert Doh-

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lii&rtiSI Minn., whose store
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ers. Often fall back
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information.”

Wmm

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IN SPARE TIME ~

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postal. J. E. SMITH." f
Pres., Dept. 2JK,

National Radio Instf- J
tute, Washington 9,1
D. C. Our 39th Year. I

Today’s Good
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TV now reaches from coast-to-
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I Mr. J. E. Smith, President, Dept. 2J R
| Notional Radio Institute, Washington 9. D. C.

I Mail me Sample Lesson and 64-page Book, "How to
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